Last One Standing
by JustUptownFuckMeUp
Summary: "The universe is big, it's vast and complicated and ridiculous. And sometimes, very rarely, impossible things just happen and we call them miracles. And that's the theory. Nine hundred years, never seen one yet, but this would do me." Somewhat AU, Doctor/TimeLady!OC
1. Prologue

_UGH…So, first time writing for DW but definitely NOT my first time writing something a little strange. PLEASE, PLEASE, __**PLEASE, **__tell me what you think. This is about ¼ the length of my normal chapters—it's a pilot. Give me opinions and __**REVIEW. **__I will, in fact, continue this if it is reviewed._

_W'P_

A cool breeze rushed quietly through the grass, stirring up a few leaves. The moon cast a white light across the calm scene. An owl hooted, lonely, somewhere in the trees. Stars dotted the sky like tiny holes in a black blanket over the earth. Water rushed somewhere far off. A tall church stood stoically pale against the night. Up near the bell tower, all was dark. Two figures smashed through a line of trees, each carrying an extinguished lantern. The first was tall and a little too thin, laughing and calling urgently back at the second figure. The aforementioned person had bright red hair and was lagging behind by just a few steps.

"Come along, let's go!" The first figure chuckled. "Lanterns aren't going to light themselves and we've still got to get up to the steeple!"

"Just wait up!" The second person gasped. The pair continued to sprint along, down to the church. The first person snapped a sonic screwdriver out and opened the door. The two looked up to the top of the church, where they needed to go, then promptly took off again, dashing up the stairs with their lanterns in hand. When they reached the top, the first person turned to the second.

"Do you have a lighter?"

"What? Just sonic it or something!"

"The sonic doesn't work that way! Just give me a lighter!"

The person brought out a lighter, and in a flash both lanterns were lit and hanging in the church steeple.

"All right." The tall woman grinned. "Let's get back."

"Aw, I'm tired!" The red-haired man groaned.

"And you sound like a little baby, now let's go. The TARDIS is still a ways back."

-o-

The man hopped back into the TARDIS, whilst the woman stayed back, saying a quick goodbye to Joseph Warren. "It really was just a blast, but I ought to be going. I might pop in again though! Bunker Hill is still coming—Oh, wait, never mind. Anyway, ta!"

She jumped in and closed the door behind her. This time around her hair was cropped short and dark. Though it was a little different she also enjoyed her new eye colour, green. She'd had blue a few times too but it never really appealed. Her shirt had a collar and was accompanied by a long, thin tie and black slacks. She jumped up to the control panel and began pulling levers and flipping switches, grinning at her companion.

"Where to now?" She asked, running around to the other side.

"Somewhere I don't have to run." He fell down in a chair and took a few deep breaths.

"Pull it together, Alistair. You're fine. Where's my hat?" She circled the control panel in search of said hat. "Where've you put it now?"

"Um . . . Oh, here." Alistair reached behind him to grab a bowler and hand it to the woman.

"Stealing my hat again, remind me never to leave you alone with it." She huffily dusted it off and jammed it on her head. "Now, back to my question. Where do you want to go to this time? Things are very lovely back in Victorian England, though I do rather like Babylon. There's also this absolutely brilliant planet where people just sit around all day and eat sweets. Had a real blast there a few times."

"Just go somewhere."

"Oh, what kind of attitude is that?" She hit a few more buttons, now frowning, and peered at her screen. "The TARDIS is picking up on something. I don't think it's for us."

"Then who's it for?" Alistair got up to look at the screen. There was a blond woman there, winking at the camera over fashionable sunglasses.

"I think I'm . . . intercepting some sort of transmission. It looks like old security footage, but I don't know who it's really meant for." She leaned over and twisted a knob, and then pulled the big lever. "Why don't we find out?" The TARDIS jerked, and both people grabbed onto a railing to steady themselves.

"Where are we going?"

"Oh, you know. Places." The TARDIS came to a stop, and the woman hurried to the entrance. "Just traced the ship that sent the transmission. It crashed some time ago—or, now. Or—you know, just drop it. It's all very confused and twisted about. My point is, now we have something to do!"

She grabbed her jacket, opened the entrance and stepped out. A huge ship, half-buried in the ground, was flaming and smoking, towering behind a huge, ancient building. It looked about like the middle of the afternoon, and there were only three people standing amongst the scattered bits of flaming wreckage. She stepped completely out of her TARDIS, letting Alistair come out behind her.

"We seem to be on . . . Alfava Metraxis, unless I'm quite mistaken. I wonder what's going on." She walked up to the nearest person, a lanky man with a tweed jacket and a red bowtie. "Excuse me, what's going on?"

"The _Byzantium _just crashed, and—wait a minute, who are you?" The man peered at her suspiciously. She looked past him, at a large blue police box that was standing absurdly out of place amongst the wreckage and panic.

"I don't know, who are you?" She flipped out her sonic and quickly scanned him, peering in as equal suspicion.

"What's going on, Doctor?" The blond woman from the security tape walked over, now carrying a pair of red heels and a scanner. Behind her was another woman, younger than the first, with flaming red hair much like Alistair's.

Meanwhile, the so-called Doctor was staring at the other sonic with such a look of shocked disbelief, that holder of said device was a little unnerved. He laughed giddily. "Where—what—you have a _sonic screwdriver_?"

"Yes of course I do." She answered edgily. "I always have, why?" Her jaw dropped a little as he pulled out one that was not the same, but looked extremely similar.

She grinned, but the venomous edge of disbelief still gnawed at her. "You—youcan't have one of those! Where did you get that?"

"Always had it, same as you." The Doctor answered lowly. "So, why would both you and I have a sonic?"

"Because . . . oh my." She blinked hard, mouth still a little agape. "But . . . that can't be possible." Her brow furrowed. "That isn't possible, why is it possible? How are you alive?"

"I should be asking you the same question." Doctor said, suspicion colouring his tone. "Unless you're a shape-shifter or otherwise faking it, in which case you are for a very bad time." He threatened, putting a short pause between each of the last three words for emphasis.

"Excuse me?" A woman in a flowing black dress with bushy curls of blond hair strode over, looking slightly mixed between annoyed and amused. She was the same woman from the old security tape. "There's actually something that needs to be done here. Who're you?"

The woman in the bowler and the Doctor were still staring each other down, however, silently judging, deciding to hope against hope that neither was a fake. Electric currents of suspicion, fear, sadness, and a thousand other emotions shot between their looks like bolts of lightning between clouds. After a few minutes of solid eye contact without blinking, the Doctor hesitantly held out a hand, still not breaking their gaze.

"I'm the Doctor." He greeted. The woman shook his hand back, equally as hesitant.

"Yes . . . I'm the Poet." She said. "And you're a Time Lord."

"Yes, we all know this. Why does it matter?" The red-headed young woman said impatiently. She obviously had some kick in her. The Poet levelled her gaze with the girl, a slightly sad, disbelieving smile moving her lips.

"So am I." She whispered.


	2. Exploration

_Thanks to those who reviewed! I'll keep writing for you guys. I apologise beforehand for the amount of blatantly copied dialogue in this chapter, but I kind of want/need to keep at least the story for these two episodes going. __**As something of a side note, **__I also apologise for the fundamental descriptions going on. I like writing fanfic so that someone who knows almost nothing of the show can read my fic and get the gist, and even enjoy it. _

_**I**__**do not own Doctor Who, its characters or its affiliates. **__Might as well put that in here. So, I think that's just 'bout it. Enjoy, my lovelies, and REVIEW! _

_P.s. There's a half-arsed drawing of the Poet on my profile if anyone wants to check it out; just for some perspective…I'll do the face/details later. _

_W'P_

Stunned silence fell over the rocky plain. Each companion stood behind their "designated" Time Lord; the two women behind the Doctor, and Alistair behind the Poet. The latter and the Doctor were still staring each other down, their age showing clearly in those few minutes. Neither wanted to believe what was going on. It was like a wonderful dream that was soon going to turn into a hellish nightmare of disappointment and anguish. It did, however, explain to the Poet why she was always regenerated as a woman. Time Lord genetics were actually terribly ingenious. She had always regenerated as a woman for purposes relating to continuing the race, and she suspected that the Doctor had always regenerated male. She wasn't sure what she thought about that.

"Wait, I thought you said you were the last Time Lord?" The redheaded woman asked, breaking the quiet and nicely summing up everyone's thoughts.

"I did." The Doctor said.

"Yeah, I heard something similar." Alistair muttered.

"You did." The Poet replied, turned her head to reply, but not breaking the epic stare.

"Then how . . ." The two red-haired humans began to ask simultaneously.

"I _don't know!" _Both Time Lords broke their gaze to turn to their companion. The effect made it seem like looking in a mirror. Silence settled in again for only a few extra seconds before the blonde woman spoke up.

"Well, I think . . . for the time being, we may as well introduce ourselves." She stepped forward and held out a hand. "Doctor River Song."

The Poet shook it, silently relieved to be moving forward. "Good to meet you. This is Alistair Donovan."

"Cheers." Alistair hung back moodily, using the Poet as something of a shield.

"Amy Pond." The young woman gave a little wave.

"Well, now that that's done, let's get back to business." River turned and began tapping at the screen of the scanner in her hand, wandering about the beige rocks. The Poet took off her hat and rubbed her short hair, sighing tiredly, and gestured to Alistair. He moved closer and tilted his head curiously.

"Do what you want, but don't wander off." Poet muttered to him. "And behave." Alistair nodded and he stepped past the Doctor and down, closer to the destroyed building.

"I would know if there were more Time Lords alive." The Doctor told the remaining person.

"I've been hiding for a long time." The Poet replied quietly. She paused. "I know who you are, Doctor. I know what you did. I may have done the same but what it comes down to is that I didn't. I don't blame you for . . . Gallifrey, even though I probably should. I just want you to know that I've been looking far and wide, and there is no one else."

"There's a thing in the belly of that ship." River called back to them, cutting off any reply the Doctor might have had. The woman smiled slyly back at him. "That can't ever die." The Poet and Doctor exchanged the tiniest of glances before focusing on River, who turned back to smirk at Amy. "Now they're listening." She put the scanner up to her ear like a mobile and began picking her way, barefooted, across the huge beige slabs of stone that was the earth. "You lot in orbit yet? Yeah, I saw it land, I'm at the crash site. Try to home in on my signal."

The Poet stepped away from the Doctor and Amy took her place beside him. Alistair quickly fell back to stand next to the Poet in a similar manner.

"Could you sonic me? I need to boost the signal so we can use it as a beacon." River held up the scanner, calling back to no one in particular. The Doctor discreetly pulled out his sonic and pointed it at her. There was an audible beep from River's general area, and she curtseyed a bit sarcastically before strutting away again.

"Hmm, Doctor, you _sonic-ed_ her." Poet heard Amy hum from a few feet away. Both women smiled at the lanky man's slightly bemused, slightly grouchy expression.

"We have a minute." River called again. "Shall we?"

In a few minutes the other four had caught up to River, who was flipping through a small book that was bound in a cover that looked a lot like the phone box that was the Doctor's TARDIS. She browsed idly through pages covered in angular cursive. "Where are we up to?" She asked lightly to the Doctor. "Have we done the Bone Meadows yet?"

"What's the book?" Amy asked, stepping forward curiously.

"Stay away from it." The Doctor warned sharply.

"What is it, though?"

"Her diary."

"_Our _diary." River corrected.

"Her past, my . . . future." The Doctor explained grumpily. "Time travel. We keep meeting in the wrong order."

The Poet raised an eyebrow slightly, but said nothing, as the Doctor didn't elaborate. At that moment there were four man-sized columns of whirling air that appeared a few metres away, which quickly dissolved to reveal the same number of men in military garb. After taking a moment to absorb their surroundings, they split into two parts. Three men went farther away, and one man stepped forward, sights set on River.

"You promised me an army, Doctor Song." He said to her not unkindly, eyes flicking over the others before returning to the blonde.

"No, I promised you the equivalent of an army, and now I have that times two." She smiled knowingly. "This is the Doctor." The Doctor saluted.

"Father Octavian, sir. Bishop, Second Class." The two men shook hands. "Twenty clerics at my command. The troops are already at the drop ship and landing shortly. Doctor Song was helping us with a covert investigation." He looked suddenly to the Poet, who was lingering only a step behind the Doctor. "Who might you be, ma'am?"

"I'm the Poet." She said, saluted as well, shook hands with him and nodded to the Doctor. "He and I are . . . pretty much the same."

Father Octavian nodded slowly, looking between the two. "Has Doctor Song explained what we're dealing with?"

River looked to the Time Lords. "Doctor, Poet . . . what do you know of the Weeping Angels?"

-o-

Before night had fallen, Octavian and his clerics had set up a sort of base outside the crashed _Byzantium _and were busy preparing to delve into the cargo hold of the ship. Large lights illuminated the sloping tents and bustling clerics that occupied the dark surface of Alfava Metraxis.

"The Angel, as far as we know, is still trapped in the ship." Octavian informed the Doctor, the Poet, Amy and Alistair after everything had been put in place. "Our mission is to get inside and neutralise it. We can't get through up top. We'd be too close to the drives." He led them to a storage bin that was serving as a makeshift table, showing them the screen of a scanner in his hand. It displayed what looked like the layout of the earth underneath them. "According to this, behind the cliff face, there's a network of catacombs leading right up to the temple. We can blow through the face of the cliffs, get into the entrance chamber, and then work our way up."

"Oh, good." The Doctor said, grinning and nodding.

"Good, sir?"

"Catacombs, probably dark ones. Dark catacombs, great." The last word had a sarcastic sneer to it.

"Technically, I think it's called a Maze of the Dead." Octavian corrected thoughtfully.

"You can stop any time you like."

The Poet let out a quiet laugh. The Doctor glanced at her, still looking somewhat amused, but was cut off by a cleric behind them.

"Father Octavian?" He called.

"Excuse me sir, ma'am." He nodded to the Time Lords and walked off. The Poet, seeing that the Doctor had that area under control, walked back with Octavian. The Father glanced at her.

"What's your relationship with the Doctor, if I may ask, ma'am?" He inquired politely.

"I'm not sure. Just met him today." She said lightly.

Octavian frowned. "You said you were the same."

"That doesn't mean I have to know him for very long. We're the same race, you see." She said, brushing a bit of light-coloured dust off her sleeve.

"And what race would that be, ma'am?" Octavian asked, with a different tone. Suspicious, almost. Before the Poet could come up with an answer, the cleric who had called the Father over jogged up to them and saluted promptly.

"Father Octavian, sir! Your supervision is requested for the establishment of the explosives needed for the excavation, sir!"

"Of course." He nodded to the Poet and was about to follow the cleric away when River leaned out of the large steel cargo hold.

"Doctor! Poet! Father Octavian!" She called and made a large beckoning gesture. They all followed her into the hold. The Doctor was explaining the reasons behind Octavian's "father" title, while at the same time Alistair was asking the Poet what exactly a Weeping Angel was.

"I think you're about to see one." Was her muttered answer. It turned out to be spot-on. When they all entered the hold, River was standing in front of a flickering, grainy, black-and-white screen. On it was an image of a young, female angel statue. She was turned mostly away from the camera, shyly covering her face with her hands.

"What do you think?" River asked them as they entered. She was now in the same clothing as Octavian, having changed out of her posh black dress from earlier. "It's from the security tapes in the _Byzantium _vault. I ripped it when I was on board. Sorry about the quality, it's only four seconds. I put it on a loop."

"Yep." The Doctor confirmed, staring at the screen. "It's an Angel. Hands covering its face."

"You've encountered the Angels before?" Octavian asked from the doorway.

"Uh, once, on Earth, a long time ago. But those were scavengers, barely surviving."

"But it's just a statue." Amy said, as though it were obvious.

"No, it's not." The Poet supplied, not taking her eyes from the screen.

"It's a statue when you see it." River elaborated.

"Where did it come from?" The Doctor asked, turning to the blonde.

"Oh, pulled from the ruins of Razbahan, last century." She answered casually. "It's been in private hands ever since, dormant all that time."

"There's a difference between dormant and patient." The Poet hummed. The Doctor looked at her with something that could only be described as amused disapproval, as though he were about to say that very thing.

"What does that mean, it's a statue when you see it?" Alistair inquired from behind Amy. River looked over the younger woman's shoulder to reply.

"The Weeping Angels can only move if they're unseen. So legend has it." She added with an amused grin. The Doctor pushed away from the screen, looking annoyed.

"It's not a legend, it's a quantum lock. In the sight of any living creature, the Angels literally cease to exist. They're just stone, the ultimate defence mechanism."

"What, being a stone?" Amy asked.

"Being a stone . . . until you turn your back." He murmured, face once again only inches from the Angel's screen. Father Octavian gave the Doctor a look of slight disbelief. The Doctor looked up at River and smiled. He then jumped up and strode quickly out of the hold, followed by Octavian, River and Alistair. The Poet remained watching the Angel's screen with Amy. "The hyperdrive would have split on impact, meaning that whole ship's gonna be flooded. Electrons, gravity storms, deadly to alm . . ." His speech faded out as he walked beyond earshot.

Amy watched the screen for a bit longer before wandering back to the entrance, listening to the others talking. "Anybody need me?" She asked. "Nobody?" After no reply, she came back and joined the Poet inside. The Time Lady was sitting in a chair, intently watching the screen.

"Why are you doing that?" Amy asked in her curling Scottish accent.

"Doing what?" The Poet turned, to look at the redhead.

"You were watching the loop."

"Yes, just something to pass the time, I suppose." The Poet said thoughtfully. "I encountered the Angels twice before. They killed one of my companions once."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Yeah, she was a nice girl. Anyway, I was simply . . ." She trailed off as she turned her attention back to the screen. Within the video, the Angel had moved. Its head was now slightly lifted from its cupped hands, face turned almost curiously, looking directly into the camera. The Poet jumped up, flicking her screwdriver from her inside jacket pocket and running the whirring rod across the screen.

"It's moved." Amy stated the obvious. She moved back to the doorway and leaned out. The Poet looked back at her. "Doctor Song? Did you have more than one clip of the Angel?"

"No, just the one." She called back faintly. Amy frowned and came back inside. The Poet turned back to the screen, and sucked in a sharp breath. The Angel had moved once again. It now faced the camera completely, arms at forty-five degree angles by its sides in a gesture almost akin to one that one would make before hugging someone.

"Amy, don't look away." The Poet said urgently. "Don't even blink." She ran her screwdriver over the screen again and peered at the results. When she looked back up, both women jumped at the screen. The Angel was in the same position, but much closer. "What part of "don't look away" do you not understand?" The Poet exclaimed. At the same time, the heavy door to the cargo hold slammed closed. The Time Lady turned around and jumped over to it, aiming her screwdriver at the lock. "No, no, no, _no_!"

Meanwhile, Amy had picked up the remote to the screen and tried turning it off. The screen went black for a second, but turned right back on again. She tried again, with the same result. And again. The Poet was still pulling and sonic-ing desperately at the door, but it was hopelessly sealed shut. Amy set the remote down, now making sure to keep her eyes on the Angel.

"You're just a recording." She whispered to the Angel. "You can't move."

The Poet was paying no attention; she tossed aside her jacket and bowler, unbuttoned her sleeves and rolled them up to her elbows. She tried turning the massive wheel on the door, but it was stuck as though magnetised. She pulled away and used her sonic, then tried opening it again. Amy looked down at the plug to the screen and pulled weakly at it, but it wouldn't budge. When she looked back up, the Angel's face was very, very close to the screen. She fell back several steps and gasped, which drew the Poet's attention. The Time Lady rushed over to the screen as Amy darted to the door.

"Doctor!" The redhead cried. The Poet pulled at the plug to the screen as well, to no avail. Amy made her own attempt at opening the door. "Doctor!"

"No use!" The Poet called over her shoulder. She looked up at the screen and let out her own gasp. The face of the Angel was now hideously contorted as though in rage, it's closed mouth now open and showing rows of long, sharp teeth. "Now, _do not take your eyes off this Angel!_" She cried back at the human.

"Doctor!" Amy cried again, pulling at the door despite the Poet's advice. Through another stroke of bad luck, they had both looked away from the Angel at the same time, and when the Poet looked back, it was practically on top of her. She stumbled back, now looking directly at it. There was suddenly a cry from the other side of the door, and someone banged on the metal.

"Amy!" The Doctor yelled. "Are you all right? What's happening?"

"Doctor? Doctor, it's coming out the television." Amy replied fearfully. "It's here."

"Poet?" The Time Lady rolled her eyes at the sound of Alistair on the other side of the door as well. "Are you all right?"

"Fine! Just brilliant!"

"Just keep looking at it!" The Doctor called over the two. "Don't take your eyes off it! It can't move if you're looking."

"Yeah, I've said that much already." The Poet snapped. Without looking away, she skirted around the Angel and tried again to pull at the plug.

"Can you turn it off?" The Doctor asked urgently.

"No!" The Poet replied, as Amy was too panicked to say much but "Doctor!" "We can't turn off the screen, and the plug is sealed into the outlet!"

"Just don't blink!" He said. There was more movement outside against the hull of the hold, banging and buzzing as River and the Doctor tried to get in.

"I'm not! Have you ever tried not blinking?" Amy asked snippily. She moved to a desk of controls and smaller monitors, pawing for the remote. The Poet was holding herself off the ground with one hand on the plug, her feet against the wall, and her other hand sonic-ing the base of the plug where it touched the wall. Her back was horizontal to the floor.

"Doctor, what's it gonna do to me?" Amy asked quietly, staring at the flickering, 3-D image with wider eyes than a deer caught in headlights.

"Amy, I am telling you now because I like you," The Poet advised loudly, still practically standing on the wall. "You _really _do not want to know!"

"Images, what did you say about images?" Amy asked.

"Whatever holds the image of an Angel is an Angel." River's voice floated through the steel, surprisingly calm despite the current scenario.

"_What?" _The Poet exclaimed. "They've learned whole new batches of fancy tricks, then, haven't they?"

"Hold this." Amy growled. "One, two, three, four!" She counted off, and then clicked a button on the remote. The Angel was suddenly made entirely of snow from the telly. The Poet slammed to the ground with a grunt as the plug gave way, and at the same time, the door to the hold crashed open and the Doctor, River and Alistair rushed in.

"I froze it!" Amy said, sounding surprised with herself. "There was a sort of blip on the tape, and I froze it. It wasn't the image of an angel anymore. That was pretty good, yeah?" The Doctor ran to the telly screen and scanned it. He looked down at the Poet, who was blinking in just as much surprise as Amy.

"May I?" The Doctor held out his hand, and the Poet handed over the plug. He sonic-ed the end, and then turned around to grin at Amy.

"It was, wasn't it? Because that was pretty good."

"That was amazing." River praised. The Poet grinned as she re-buttoned her sleeves and pulled on her jacket. Grabbing her hat, she walked back to clap a hand on Amy's shoulder.

"That was great. Very clever." She said approvingly.

"Poet, hug Amy."

"Why?"

"Because I'm busy."

The women laughed a little, both relieved just to be alive, standing there. The Poet embraced the young woman happily. The hug was suddenly interrupted by a massive explosion from outside, big enough to shake the very earth. Alistair rushed out to look at the explosion. The Poet glanced at Amy, who had hardly even turned at the sound. Outside, dust and small pieces of dirt were sprinkling down like earthen rain, and patches of smoke and flame were thinning out behind an approaching Father Octavian.

"Doctor! We're through!" He called to them.

"Okay." The Doctor looked back at them with a small smile. "Now it starts." He jumped out the door. River followed him, and the Poet lingered behind a bit, looking at Amy, who still hadn't moved.

"Coming?" She asked.

"Yeah, coming." Amy said distractedly, rubbing her eye. The Poet frowned, but bounded out with the others. Father Octavian had tossed a rope ladder down the crater that he and his clerics had blown in the cliff face. The two Time Lords, River, Alistair, all the clerics and, lagging behind a bit, Amy, all clambered down into the catacombs. The Doctor grabbed a torch from his back pocket and flicked it on, waving the beam of white light above them.

"Do we have a gravity globe?" He asked.

"Grav globe." Octavian said to one of his men, who brought out the large white sphere about the size of a football.

"Where are we? What is this place?" Alistair asked, flashing his own torch around the dark cavern.

"It's an Aplan Mortarium—sometimes called a Maze of the Dead." River explained darkly.

"What's that?"

"Well, if you happen to be a creature of living stone . . ." The Doctor started, then tossed up the gravity globe and kicked it much like a football. The sphere soared high up and lit up with shining violet, bright enough to illuminate most of the Maze. It stayed there, suspended without strings.

"Ha, ha!" The Poet laughed up at the glowing orb that was now suspended above them group like a small, bluish sun. The party gazed in awe above them at the orb, and the gargantuan underground city that it showed them. It cast light on towering, ruined structures that loomed high above their heads like old spider webs torn apart by rain. The buildings clung to the edges of the cliff and sprouted from the ground like trees. Thick, tangled, enormous thatches of roots from above ground had smashed through the stone of the earth over the years and wrapped around the structures in the cavern in ancient embraces.

Dotted along the edges of parapets and buildings were statues of humans, or humanoids—they didn't look like Angels.

"Perfect hiding place." The Doctor said. They all looked at the statues. An Angel could very easily hide amongst the statues and never be detected until it was a split second too late.

"Well, I guess this makes it a bit trickier." Octavian mused, waving his torch at the statues.

"Ha." The Poet chuckled drily, still looking around with her torch. "A bit, yeah."

"A stone Angel on the loose amongst stone statues. A lot harder than I prayed for."

"A needle in a haystack." River breathed.

"A needle that looks like hay, a hay-like needle of death. A hay-like needle of death in a haystack of, uh, statues. No, yours was fine." The Doctor added back to River.

"Right." Octavian said determinedly, though kept his voice down. "Check every single statue in this chamber. You know what you're looking for. Complete visual inspection. One question—how do we fight it?"

"We find it, and hope." The Doctor said, bounding off. The Poet, Amy and Alistair followed, and River looked like she was about to, but was stopped by Octavian. They didn't wait up for her, as she joined up a few minutes later. The Poet looked up, admiring the crumbling architecture. Thin stone stairways, thinned with age, jumped between sides of the crevasse the party was navigating. Dozens of statues posed along the stairs, in and on buildings, perched hundreds of feet above them. The Poet and the Doctor were almost walking side-by-side ahead of the others, the former a little ahead of the latter. They were peering intensely at the statues, the Doctor especially.

"I forgive you, you know." The Poet said, almost like an afterthought. She turned her gaze from the eroded statue in front of her to look back at the Doctor, who was now looking at her. "For Gallifrey."

"Don't." The Doctor muttered immediately.

"Why shouldn't I?"

The Time Lord paused. "Because I still don't forgive myself." He replied quietly, before quickly going back to tapping at the scanner in his hand. The Poet frowned and opened her mouth to say something, when she was interrupted by River from behind them.

"Other side up." She informed, still standing back a bit with Amy. A beat passed, and the Doctor flipped the scanner over.

"Yeah." He said, as though he had known that all along. Amy and River continued talking to each other. Alistair sauntered up to the Poet, looking intently at the statue in front of them.

"So . . . we're looking for another Angel? Is it going to look like the one on that screen?" He asked nonchalantly, glancing apprehensively sideways.

"Not sure." The Poet drawled, moving to another statue and continuing further down the path. "It will if it's been eating, which is unlikely."

"Well, what's so dangerous about them anyway?" He asked. The Poet turned to face him, an incredulous expression on her face.

"They are literally the most lethal, merciless, strongest creatures the universe currently contains. If you blink, you die. They move so fast, your delightfully human brain can't even begin to comprehend it. No one has found a way to fight them yet and they aren't going away." She poked his forehead and smiled. "So when you see one, run away backwards."

The sound of gunfire echoed not too distantly within the caverns, the dinging of bullets off stone clattering ominously toward the Time Lords and their companions. In an instant the former two had spun and were sprinting back down the way they had come, followed by Amy, River and Alistair. Snippets of white light flashed as torches waved wildly to and fro. They followed the source of the sound into a smaller branch of the caves, where one of Octavian and one of his clerics were standing, the latter with a shocked expression on his face. Across from him was a statue, ground away by age, with several fresh holes in its faded face.

"Sorry." The cleric stuttered. "I thought . . . I thought it looked at me."

"We know what the Angel looks like." Octavian chided, sounding very annoyed. "Is that the Angel?"

"No, sir."

"No, sir, it is not! According to the Doctor and Poet, we are facing an enemy of unknowable power and infinite evil. So it would be good, it would be very good, if we could all remain calm in the presence of décor."

"What's your name?" The Doctor suddenly and loudly asked the guilty cleric, after closely observing the shot statue.

"Bob, sir." The man replied. He was very young.

"Ah, that's a great name. I love Bob." The Doctor praised happily.

"It's a sacred name." Octavian explained. "We all have sacred names. They're given to us in the service of the church."

"Sacred Bob. More like Scared Bob now, eh?"

"Yes, sir." Bob answered unsurely.

"Ah, good. Scared keeps you fast. Anyone in this room who isn't scared is a moron." He patted both Bob and Octavian's shoulders. "Carry on."

As the party worked their way back to where they had been before, Amy began to look concerned. "Isn't there a chance this lot's just gonna collapse?" She asked, referring to the apparently delicate underground city. "There's a whole ship up there."

"Incredible builders, the Aplans." The Doctor answered. "Had dinner with their chief architect once. Two heads are better than one."

"What, you mean you helped him?"

"No, the Aplans had two heads." The Poet called back from a few feet ahead. The Doctor frowned.

"That book, at the end, what did it say?" He addressed River.

"Ah, hang on." The blonde said.

"Read it to me."

The Poet looked around as River rifled around for the book, looking at the statues in a new way. Her line of thought began to intersect, she believed, with what the Doctor was thinking. The horror of the potential of what could happen if it was true began to sink in as River found the page and began reading.

"'What if we had ideas that could think for themselves? What if one day our dreams no longer needed us? When these things occur, and are held to be true, the time will be among us. The time of angels.'" River looked up. Both Time Lords were now standing very still, the Poet a few paces ahead of the others. They were slowly drifting the torch beams over the half-disintegrated statues around them, not sure of their suspicions, but suspecting nonetheless.

The Poet was first to break the silence as she continued forward, stones crunching lightly under her feet. "Let's keep on, shall we?"

_Happy April Fool's! This isn't a joke, don't worry. And I hope none of you mind my just kind of going through the episode . . . I'll try to keep things interesting because right now no one has any free time! Ha ha. __**Review. **_


	3. Time Of The Angels

_Sorry about the epic word length on this one, I'm trying to get through this episode in as few chappie's as possible, but unfortunately that means Epic Chapters are in order. Stick around, guys, things should get more unique soon. And remember, reviews are like delicious, delicious fuel!_

_W'P_

"Brilliant species, Donovan." The Poet said. She peered over the edge of one of the towering, shifty staircases of stone. "Absolutely brilliant. Chief architect was a good bloke, too, liked his left head better than his right." She made a little motion to indicate the Aplans' having of two heads. "Left tended to be a bit pushy. Right was a decent bloke, though. They were both rather nice when it came down to it, however."

Alistair hesitantly leaned over the edge, waving his torch down into the darkness. "So, they had two personalities?"

"Well, sometimes it was more dramatic, depending on the person. They were all very nice, though. Reasonable species, the Aplans." She casually grabbed Alistair's collar and pulled him back from the edge with a chastising smile. "But some people were a bit more similar to each other. Careful round the edge, Donovan. The Aplans might have been brilliant, but a loose stone can still send you over nonetheless. I'm not snatching you from death's claws again."

"Oh-ho, yes you would." Alistair laughed as they continued up the stairs.

She ignored the comment but for a sideways smirk. "Just keep an eye out."

"Are we there yet?" Amy called from below them on the stairs. "It's a hell of a climb."

"The maze is on six levels, representing the ascent of the soul. Only two levels to go." River informed breathlessly.

"Lovely species, the Aplans." The Doctor praised thoughtfully. "We should visit them sometime."

"I thought they were all dead?" Amy asked.

"So is Virginia Woolf. I'm on her bowling team." The Doctor stated offhandedly. "Relaxed, sort of cheerful. Well, that's having two heads, of course. Never short of a snog with two heads."

The Poet turned around. "_You're_ on Virginia's bowling team? No wonder they've been doing so well lately." She continued up the stairs.

"You really shouldn't say things like that." Amy said a moment later. "Now he's looking all smug."

The party reached a landing between levels. It was a smaller cave, again filled with statues. The Poet flashed her torch at the worn faces; something was tickling the back of her mind about the statues. As she was thinking it, River voiced her thoughts.

"Doctor, there's something, I don't know what it is—"

"Yeah, there's something wrong. Don't know what it is yet. Working on it." He changed the topic. "'Course, then they started having laws against self-marrying. I mean, what was that about? But that's the church for you." He looked at Octavian. "Uh, no offense, Bishop."

"Quite a lot taken, if that's all right, Doctor." Octavian replied. They continued deeper into the cave, where the path had thinned so they could only walk through single-file. There were more statues than ever in this part of the system, and the gravity globe's light didn't reach this far, so they were once again relying on the torches for illumination. "The lowest part of the wreckage is only about fifty feet up from here, that way."

"Church had a point, if you think about it." Amy said. "Divorces must have been messy."

"Oh . . ." The Doctor breathed, furrowing his brow at a statue. The Poet looked between them and him, then took in their conversations about the Aplans.

"Oh." She came to the same realisation a moment later, and instinctively pulled Alistair away from the statue he was closest to, without even thinking about it.

"_Oh._" River gasped, stopping and looking around. She exchanged a look with the Doctor, and the Doctor with the Poet.

"Exactly." The Doctor whispered to them.

"How could we not notice that?" River asking quietly.

"Low-level perception filter," The Doctor started.

"Or we're thick." The Poet finished drily.

"What's wrong, sir?" Octavian asked the Doctor.

"Nobody move, nobody move, everybody stay exactly where you are!" The Doctor said urgently. Everyone froze. The Poet still had a hand clenched in Alistair's collar, almost holding him above the ground. He looked as sullen as a child caught stealing sweets, with a touch of pure terror. "Bishop, I am truly sorry. I have made a mistake and we are all in terrible danger."

"What danger?" Octavian asked, looking around warily.

"The Aplans." River said, as though that would explain everything. Amy was now looking as though she were starting to get it.

"The Aplans?"

"They've got two heads."

"Yes, I get that. So?" Octavian was starting to sound annoyed.

"So why don't the statues?" The Poet asked quietly.

"Everyone, over there." The Doctor pointed his torch over to a wall of the cave where there were no statues. "Just move, don't ask questions, don't speak." Once everyone was behind the Doctor, he said, "Okay. I want you all to switch off your torches."

"Sir?"

"Just do it."

A short, tense silence fell over them, punctuated occasionally by a distant drip of water or shifting of gravel under a shoe. White beams of light flashed around the chamber as they looked around with their torches, but they all quickly disappeared until only the Doctor still had his on. The statues all stood innocently on their bits of rock or on the floor. The Poet realised she was still holding on to Alistair and let him go.

"Okay." The Doctor breathed. "I'm going to turn this one off too, just for a moment."

"Are you sure about this?" The Poet and River asked simultaneously. The Doctor quirked his head a little.

"No." He paused, and then turned his flashlight on and off in a split second. In the tiny space of time that there was darkness, every statue in the room had turned to look at them. Some had hands outstretched a tiny bit, some had only turned their heads, and some had moved their entire bodies forward a pace. The Doctor and Poet jumped forward instantly, running back down the way they came and pointing their torches in the faces of the statues.

"They're Angels." The Doctor said to the rest of the party. "All of them."

"They can't be." River said disbelievingly.

"Clerics, keep watching them." Then, edging around one on the floor, arm begging beseechingly, he ran down to the stairs. After a moment, the Poet followed him, who was then followed by Amy, River and Alistair.

"Every statue in this maze, every single on, is a Weeping Angel." The Doctor whispered, aiming the torchlight from one to another, all facing them. "And they're coming after us."

"Well." The Poet said, still keeping her voice down. "This certainly puts a damper on things."

"You think?" Alistair hissed, voice cracking violently.

"Yes, I do think, and if you have any intention on living through this, I suggest you listen to everything we have to say. And remember," She smirked and tapped the ginger's forehead with her torch. "Don't wander off."

"That's one of my rules." The Doctor mumbled.

"Oh, you've got rules too?" The Poet asked happily. "Is one of them that you lie? Because that's my number one. Also that no one touches the hat." She patted the bowler affectionately.

"All right, that's even weirder than the Angels." Amy whispered snarkily. "Now can we _please _move?" The clerics caught up to them before either Time Lord could snap out a response.

"There was only one Angel on the ship." River explained frantically. "Just the one, I swear."

"Could they have been here already?" Amy asked.

"The Aplans, what happened, how did they die out?" The Doctor turned to Octavian.

"Nobody knows." River murmured.

"We know."

"They don't look like Angels." Octavian still didn't seem to believe it, looking around at the statues that had been devoured by time.

"And they're not fast." Alistair accused. The Poet shot him a look. "You said they were fast. They should have had us by now."

"Look at them, they're dying, losing their form. They must have been down here for centuries, starving." The Doctor explained.

"Losing their image." Amy breathed the realisation.

"And their image is their power." The Time Lord paused. "Power . . . power!"

"Doctor?"

"Yeah, don't you see! All that radiation spilling out, the drive burn." He was pacing around excitedly, almost yelling at them. "The crash of the _Byzantium _wasn't an accident, it was a rescue mission for the Angels. We're in the middle of an army and it's waking up."

"We need to get out of here, fast." The Poet said what they were all thinking.

"Bob, Angelo, Christian, come in please." Octavian spoke into his radio. There was no response at first. "Any of you, come in!"

"It's Bob, sir." The young voice quavered out of the intercom. "Sorry, sir."

"Bob, are Angelo and Christian with you? All the statues are active. I repeat, all the statues are active!"

"I know, sir." Bob said. "Angelo and Christian are dead, sir. The statues killed them, sir." The Doctor snatched the device from Octavian and hit the button.

"Bob, Sacred Bob, it's me, the Doctor. How are you doing?"

"I'm on my way up to you, sir. I'm homing in on your signal, sir."

"Ah, well done, Bob." The Doctor praised. "Scared keeps you fast, I told you, didn't I? Your friends, Bob, what did the Angel do to them?

"Something isn't right." The Poet muttered to Alistair. The man looked at her, concerned.

"What do you mean? I mean, besides the fact that we're surrounded by beings that could murder us in an instant?"

"I don't know yet." The Poet looked around, flashing her torch on the statues that were already starting to look more like Angels. "But I think it has to do with Sacred Bob."

"Snapped their necks, sir." Bob replied to the Doctor.

"See, that's odd, because that's not how the Angels kill you. They displace you in time. Unless they needed bodies for something." The Doctor and Octavian had a brief spat about whether the comrades of Bob were still alive.

"Something terrible is going on here." The Poet continued to Alistair. "I'm not sure what it is yet, but I think we're going to find out soon." She made a motion to the Doctor, and after a short pause he handed the radio to her. "Hello, Bob, my name's the Poet. Tell me, Sacred Bob, how did you escape the Angels?"

"I didn't escape, ma'am. The Angel killed me too." Everyone exchanged an apprehensive look.

"What do you mean, the Angel killed you too?" The Poet asked, looking around them. She and the Doctor held eye contact for a moment, a million ideas of what could be happening flashing between them with just the one glance.

"Snapped my neck, ma'am. Wasn't as painless as I expected, but it was pretty quick so that was something."

"If you're dead, how can I be talking to you?"

"You're not talking to me, ma'am. The Angel has no voice. It stripped my cerebral cortex from my body and re-animated a version of my consciousness to communicate with you. Sorry about the confusion."

The Poet winced. "So when you say _you're _on your way up to us—"

"It's the Angel that's coming, ma'am, yes." The Poet let go of the button.

"No way out!" The Doctor snapped, stalking around.

"Then we get out through the wreckage. Go!" Octavian made a motion, behind him. The clerics didn't hesitate, and neither did Alistair, but Octavian and Amy held back.

"Doctor—" The latter started.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm coming, just go, go, go!" He motioned urgently. The Poet stayed behind as well. The Doctor glanced at her and jerked his thumb, but she simply shook her head and waved the radio at him. The Time Lord gave her a look, but then turned to Octavian.

"Yeah, I called you an idiot, but there was no way we could have saved your men." He said, sounding sincerely sorry.

"I know that, sir." Octavian replied coldly. "And when you've flown away in your little blue box, I'll make sure to tell their families that." With those parting words, he strode off after his men and the others. The Doctor watched him for a moment, a few unidentifiable emotions flashing on his face, before turning to the Poet.

"What are you doing, you need to go." He said, holding out his hand for the radio.

"If you think you're staying back here by yourself, then you have another thing coming." She replied, holding back the device.

"I _can't be responsible for more deaths!" _The Doctor cried suddenly, and seemed much taller and more fearsome than he had been. After a second, he settled down. "Especially not more Time Lords, assuming you're not lying to me. You need to go with Amy and River and Alistair. You need to protect them if I can't."

"Of course I'm not lying." The Poet replied firmly. "They're strong people, and I'm not just going to leave you here by yourself like I did before. I've had just about enough running." She tossed the radio to the Doctor. He gave her a long, serious look before hitting the button.

"Angel Bob, which Angel am I talking to?" He asked calmly. "The one from the ship?"

"Yes, sir. And the other Angels are still restoring."

"Ah, so the Angel is not in the wreckage. Thank you!" He took off after the others with the Poet close behind. They ran down a stair case and dashed past Amy, who was standing still, with a hand on the railing, over which was the chasm that led down to the ground. "Don't wait for me, run, go!"

"I can't!" Amy exclaimed, panicked. The Doctor stopped and turned around, to stand next to Amy. "No, really, I can't."

"Why not?"

"Look at it. Look at my hand!" Amy cried. "It's stone!"

The Doctor waved his torch between Amy's eyes, frowning. "You looked into the eyes of an Angel, didn't you?"

"I couldn't stop myself. I tried."

"Listen to me, it's is messing with your head. Your hand is not made of stone."

"Yes it is, look at it!"

"It's in your mind, I promise you. You can move that hand, and you can let go."

"I can't, okay? I've tried, and I can't. It's stone!" As she said it, both the Doctor and the Poet's torches flickered. The latter looked around, whacking the thing urgently.

"Listen, the Angel is going to come and it is going to turn these lights off and then there's nothing either of us can do to stop it. So do it, concentrate, move your hand."

"I can't." Amy insisted.

"Then we're all gonna die."

Amy frowned. "You guys aren't going to die."

The Doctor ignored the question, looking up over her shoulder. The Poet followed his gaze to the Angels behind Amy, frozen in their positions, reaching depravedly toward the three. She had to bite her lip not to say anything, glancing anxiously behind her as the Doctor and Amy continued to talk. The torches flickered again, and the Poet smacked it again. It continued to flicker, and the statues seemed to get just a little bit closer to them. The two next to her starting raising their voices even further. Amy suddenly yelped and jerked her "stone" hand back, looking indignant.

"Ah, see, not stone, now run!" The Doctor backed away from the Angels, keeping his torch on them and trying in vain to usher Amy behind him.

"You bit me!" The Scot cried at him. "I've got a mark on my hand, see!"

"Yes, and you're alive, now let's go."

"Blimey, your teeth, do you have space teeth?"

"Yeah, alive, did I mention?" They then turned and sprinted down the corridor, with one final look at the approaching hoard. After running for a while, they caught up with River, Alistair, Octavian and his clerics. They were all looking up at a giant silver ceiling—the crashed _Byzantium, _wedged in the ground. The gravity globe above them was flickering like the torches, buzzing with each dangerous power wave.

"Yeah, it's the Angels. They're coming. And they're draining the power for themselves." The Doctor said as they jogged up to them. He handed the Poet the radio. "Here, hang onto this and talk to Bob."

"Gladly."

"Which means we won't be able to see them." Octavian said.

"Which means we can't stay here." The Doctor walked around the group and looked up at the flickering gravity globe and the _Byzantium._ River stalked up to him and began talking to him. Alistair sidled up next to the Poet, who was also staring at the wrecked ship.

"Poet," He muttered nervously. "Not to pressure you or anything, but usually when we're trapped with no possible means of escape you come up with some ridiculous, brilliant idea that saves everyone, and I think now would be a really great time to do that."

"There's always a way out." The Doctor breathed. He glanced around, up down, standing perfectly still. He and the Poet exchanged a glance, then both looked up at the gravity globe. The tiniest of smirks yanked up the side of the Poet's mouth as she thought of the same idea. In preparation, she straightened her tie and clipped the radio to her belt. As she did so, a buzz of static came from it, and she picked it up.

"Angel Bob, lovely to speak with you, it's the Poet again." She chirped into the radio. "What do you need?"

"Can I speak to the Doctor, please, ma'am?" Bob asked in his unnerving monotone. The Poet glanced at the Doctor before handing him the radio.

"Hello Angels, what's your problem?" The Time Lord asked immediately.

"Your power will not last much longer." Angel Bob said. "And the Angels will be with you shortly. Sorry, sir."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"There's something the Angels are very keen you should know before the end."

"Which is?"

"I died in fear."

The Doctor paused. "I'm sorry?"

"You told me my fear would keep me alive, but I died afraid, in pain and alone. You made me trust you, and when it mattered most you let me down."

"What are they doing?" Alistair breathed to the Poet, who was staring intently at the radio.

"They're trying to make him angry." The Time Lady whispered back.

"I'm sorry, sir." Angel Bob continued. "The Angels were very keen you should know that."

The Doctor paused before speaking again, now in a very low voice like a volcano about to explode. "Well then, the Angels have made their second mistake, because I'm not gonna let that pass. I'm sorry you're dead, Bob, but I swear to whatever is left of you that they will be sorrier."

"But you're trapped, sir, and about to die."

"Yeah, I'm trapped, and you know what? Speaking of traps, this trap has a great, big mistake in it!" He spun in a circle, calling to the surrounding Angels. The Poet smiled, buttoned the two on her jacket and straightened her collar. "A great, big, whopping mistake!"

"What mistake, sir?"

The Doctor turned around to Amy. "Trust me?" He asked her.

"Yeah." The young woman responded without hesitation.

"Trust me?" He asked River.

"Always." The blonde woman replied. The Doctor then turned to the Poet and gave her a long look.

"Trust me?" The question had a somewhat deeper meaning to it. The Poet's smile widened to a grin and she began doing stretches for her legs.

"Like I've never trusted anyone." She said confidently. The Doctor then turned to the clerics and asked the same question.

"We have faith, sir." Octavian said after a longer pause than the women.

"Good, now give me your gun." Octavian pulled the weapon out and handed it over. The Doctor turned it over in his hands, looking at the others present. "I'm about to do something incredibly stupid and dangerous, and when I do," He demonstrated. "Jump!"

"Jump where?" Octavian asked.

"Oh, just jump, high as you can. Come on, leap of faith, Bishop. On my signal." He aimed the gun high above their heads.

"What signal?"

The Poet grinned and nudged Alistair with her elbow. "Hold on, Donovan."

"You won't miss it."

"Sorry, can I ask again?" Angel Bob buzzed in from the radio. "You mentioned a mistake we made?"

"Oh, big, big mistake, really huge. Didn't anyone ever tell you, there's one thing you never put in a trap if you're smart, if you value your continued existence, if you have any plans about seeing tomorrow, there's one thing you never, ever put in a trap."

"And what would that be, sir?"

The Poet glanced sideways at him, as did everyone else. The Doctor was staring intensely up at the gravity globe, unblinking.

"Me." And he fired a single accurate shot into the air. The gravity globe exploded with the shattering sound of glass, and the Poet was jerked up with everyone else as they went and jumped into the air. Alistair let out a very unmanly shriek, and the Poet's laugh was snapped away as they hurtled thirty feet into the air and landed hard on a smooth, pale surface. Pairs of boots banged around them as they all hit the ground, falling over but quickly getting back up.

"Up, up, look up!" The Doctor said to them, walking around and reaching into his jacket. The Poet beat him to it, bending down at a circular opening to the ship and running her sonic around the edge.

"Doctor, what am I looking at? Explain!" Amy practically whined.

"Oh, come on, Amy, think! The ship crashed with the power still on, yeah, so what else is still on?" They all took another good look around, at the stone ruins all upside-down below them. "The artificial gravity, one good jump and up we fell. Shot out the grav-globe to give us an updraft and here we are!"

"Doctor, the statues are starting to look more like Angels now." Octavian said worriedly, shining his torch up at the Angels on the ground, all reaching up in fury at their escaped prey.

"They're feeding on the radiation from the wreckage, draining all the power from the ship, restoring themselves. Within an hour, they'll be an army."

"Ha!" The Poet barked in triumph, the little trapdoor sliding open to reveal the inside of the ship. As she did so, one of the bright bulbs on the outside burst in a shower of sparks and hot glass, making their surroundings that much darker. "Into the ship now, quickly!" The Time Lady hopped into the hole.

"But how?" Alistair asked. "Poet?" The Doctor followed immediately after. The Poet was far ahead, fiddling with the wiring of the lights.

"It's just a corridor." The Doctor smiled up at the others, looking down on them. "The gravity orientates to the floor, now, in here, all of you, don't take your eyes off the Angels, move, move, move!" The Poet, still sonic-ing the device on the wall, suddenly yelled out. The large, heavy door to the rest of the ship had quickly slammed closed, trapping them.

"It's a time bomb. Well, it's a death trap and a time bomb." The Doctor observed, trying to remain calm. "And now it's a dead end. Nobody panic." There was an echoed bang from the other side of the hole they had popped through from the outside, and small holes, like bullets, snapped their way through the metal. "Okay, just me then. What's through there?"

"Secondary flight deck." River answered, still looking at the trapdoor.

"Okay, so we've basically run up the inside of a chimney, yeah?" Amy asked. "And what if the gravity fails?" The Poet turned and stepped to the other side of the corridor and opened a box that had lots of wires in it.

"I've thought about that." The Doctor answered Amy's question.

"And?"

"And, we'll all plunge to our deaths. See, I've thought about it. Ah, the security protocols are still live. There's no way to override them. It's impossible."

"How impossible?" River gritted out.

"Two minutes." A large hum went throughout the ship, the sound of electricity failing and power coming to a stop. A few seconds passed, and following the power hum, the lights in the corridor went out. The Poet was still twisting and sonic-ing the wires in the box, trying to keep her eyes on two places at once. A small explosion of sparks lit up in front of her, which she hurriedly waved away. In the brief light provided, the silhouette of a stone arm was illuminated in the circle that they had jumped through.

"Sir, incoming!" A cleric said, failing to keep panic from his voice. There was a tell-tale ring of the sonic in the dark, though from which Time Lord it wasn't clear, and the lights flashed back on for a second. In the instant, an entire Angel had begun pulling itself in the ship, half its body inside already. Its unnervingly placid face was staring straight ahead, directly at them. The party was silent for a moment as the Poet, the Doctor and River all tried desperately to keep the lights on.

The corridor went dark again.

As the lights came on for another second, a few present gasped. Three Angels were completely inside, at the end of the hall.

"Clerics, keep watching them." Octavian warned as the lights flickered again.

"And don't look at their eyes," The Doctor added. "Anywhere else, not the eyes." He pulled up his sonic screwdriver and clapped his hands on the Poet and River's shoulders. "I've isolated the lighting grid. They can't drain the power now."

"Good work, Doctor." Octavian said.

"Yes, good, good, good. Good in many ways, good you like it so far." He walked a circle and opened the door control panel.

"So far?" Alistair asked, a note of hysteria leaking into his voice.

"Well, there's only one way to open this door. I guess I'll need to route all the power in this section through the door control."

"Good, fine, do it." Father Octavian snapped.

"Including the lights, all of them. I'll need to turn out the lights." The Poet looked over her shoulder at him, momentarily pausing in her work. The others paused as well, before the silence was once again broken by Octavian.

"How long for?" The Bishop asked.

"Fraction of a second, maybe longer. Maybe quite a bit longer." He ran a hand down his chin, now quite a bit more distressed. "Well, I'm guessing. We're being attacked by statues in a crashed ship—there isn't a manual for this!" He cried and darted back to the door control.

"Doctor, we lost the torches, we'll be in total darkness!" Amy said loudly.

"No other way! Bishop . . ." The Doctor turned to talk to Octavian and River. The Poet glanced over at Alistair, who was still staring at the Angels.

"Donovan, you trust me, hm?" She asked. The ginger briefly looked at her.

"Yeah, of course I do."

"Good, because this is going to be extremely dangerous and I don't know how many of us are getting out alive."

Alistair smirked. "You've said that before."

"Have I?"

"Those exact words."

"Well, all right then." She smirked, made a final twist of some wiring before closing the little box with a snap.

-o-

"A forest in a bottle on a spaceship in a maze, have I impressed you yet, Amy Pond?"

Amy laughed and gave her head a little incredulous shake. "Seven."

"Seven?" The Doctor repeated, jumped forward to look closely at Amy, who was seeming more bewildered by the second.

"Sorry, what?"

"You said seven."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes you did." River said, looking curiously at Amy. Before anyone could continue, a cleric came back from exploring the artificial forest.

"Doctor, there's an exit, far side of the ship, into the primary flight deck."

"Good, that's where we need to go." The Doctor said, still observing Amy intensely. The Poet, also looking at the young woman from afar, snapped her attention down to the radio clipped to her belt, which suddenly buzzed with static and a young man's voice.

"Doctor? Doctor, are you there? It's Angel Bob here, sir." The Poet grabbed up the radio.

"Angel Bob, there you are. It's the Poet, actually. Missed you up here, what can I do for you?" She jumped up to sit on a dead part of the control panel in the room, resting an arm on her knee.

"The Angels are wondering what you hope to achieve."

"Achieve? We're not achieving anything. We're just hanging, it's nice in here. Consoles, comfy chairs, a forest. How's things with you?"

"The Angels are feasting, ma'am. Soon we'll absorb enough power to be able to consume this vessel, this world, and all the stars and worlds beyond."

The Poet paused before answering, exchanging a short look with the Doctor. "Well, we've got comfy chairs, did I mention?"

"We have no need of comfy chairs."

The Poet cracked a small grin before tossing the radio to the Doctor. "Made him say comfy chairs." She stated with a touch of victory.

Amy giggled. "Six." After, she looked slightly confused, like the look one sometimes gets after walking into a room and forgetting why.

The Doctor sprang up from the comfy chair in the middle of the half-circle of consoles, stepping forward a few paces. "Okay, Bob, enough chat, here's what I want to know; what have you done to Amy?"

"There's something in her eye."

The Poet leaned far over to peer at Amy's eyes, mercilessly scrutinizing the confused human. "What's in her eye?" She asked, loud enough to be heard.

"We are."

Amy moved forward suddenly, and the Poet quickly leaned back to give her room. "What's he talking about?" She asked worriedly, stalking up to the Doctor. "Doctor, I'm five." The Poet and River frowned at each other, while the Doctor performed the same peering exam as the Poet had a few seconds earlier. Amy, now seeming to actually hear what she was saying, corrected, "I mean, five." Another pause. "Fine! I mean fine."

"You're counting." River deduced.

"Counting?" Amy asked, a tiny whisper laden with fear.

"You're counting down from ten, have been for a couple of minutes." The Doctor answered lowly, staring at her like she was an Angel. He handed the radio off to the Poet without looking away from Amy.

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Well, counting down to what?"

"I don't know."

"We shall take her." Bob said from the radio. The Poet looked down at it in her hand. "We shall take all of you. We shall have dominion over all time and space."

"Get a life, Bob." The Poet snapped into the radio with only a touch of amusement now. "Oops! Bad topic. There's power on this ship, but nowhere near that much."

"With respect, ma'am, there's more power on this ship than you yet understand." Angel Bob's statement was followed by a hideous screeching noise that seemed to break through every wall that protected them, grating on their ears, coming from everywhere and nowhere.

"What is that?" River cried, looking around. "Dear god, what is it?" The horrible noise slowed to a stop, but was accompanied by a banging and scraping around the hull of the room—they were back.

"It's hard to put it in your terms, Dr Song, but as best as I understand it . . . the Angels are laughing." The two Time Lords present glanced at each other, equally perturbed. Neither had ever heard the laughter of Weeping Angels in any of their multiple combined encounters.

"_Laughing?"___The Poet asked, voicing their thoughts.

"Because you haven't noticed yet, ma'am. The Time Lords in their TARDISs' haven't noticed."

"Doctor . . ." Octavian started, but the Doctor held up a hand.

"No, wait. There's something I've . . ." The room began to shudder, and a great glow of light peered into the room from behind them. They turned around, and above them on the wall was a massive crack in the shining metal, beaming out bright beams of white light. The room seemed to be bending, the steel walls screeching with the power of the crack. ". . . Missed."


	4. Confirmation

_Stick around, guys, things should get better soon! And __**review**__! I know you're reading it, I have a stats list! ;3 I'll also periodically add in little quotes or song lyrics or sayings or whatever for a little extra thing. If it's a song, I suggest you listen to it._

_W'P _

"_Reality is not always probable, or likely." -Jorge Luis Borges_

-o-

The Poet vaulted over the consoles and dashed to the wall with the crack, the Doctor steering a cart over at the same time. The former jumped up a little, sonic screwdriver in hand, trying to scan it without diving right at it. The room shook madly, the sound of twisting metal growing louder as a few of the party stumbled around. Amy ran forward too, staying behind a pace but staring, large-eyed, at the glowing rift in the steel.

"That's . . . that's like the crack from my bedroom wall when I was a little girl!" She said over the noise in the room. Another massive shake rumbled through the ground, making Time Lords and humans alike lose their footing.

"All right, enough." Octavian said sternly, after straightening himself. "We're moving out!"

"Agreed." River gasped. "Doctor? What are you doing?"

"Right with you." He pushed the cart up to the wall and clambered on top of it, reaching his sonic up to the crack.

"We're not leaving without you." River said firmly.

"Oh, yes you are. Bishop?"

"Miss Pond, Dr Song, Mr Donovan, come on!" Octavian was a few steps in the faux forest, gesturing for the others. Alistair passed a look to the Poet, and she frowned pointedly at him. The ginger frowned back, but turned and ran off as well. The Doctor also looked down at the Time Lady, passing her a similar frown.

"That means you too, you know." He called. In response, she clambered up on the cart.

"Nice try, but no, it doesn't." She said, now scanning the rift with her own sonic. She looked at the results and tried again. "That's not good."

"What, what isn't?" The Doctor mimicked the Poet and looked at his sonic. "Oh, that's bad. That's extremely very not good." He tucked the sonic away in his jacket and slowly pressed his ear to the rumbling wall, as though listening for something on the other side. He jerked his head up at a surprised intake of breath from the Poet. Around them, frozen tumbling over consoles and stretching over each other were Angels, staring blankly at the pair through smooth eyes. They looked a great deal more like proper Weeping Angels now, though some were still missing fingers or had crumbling faces.

The Time Lords jumped down in unison, both trying to keep their eyes on all the Angels and at the same time moving forward. "Do . . . not . . . blink." The Doctor breathed. The Poet nodded.

"Yeah, I know that much." She heaved up unto the consoles again, leaping down off the malfunctioning screens and landing hard on the floor, skidding into the artificial forest. The Doctor yelled out, no longer following. The Poet turned around to see his tweed jacket hooked firmly in the grasp of an Angel. Her eyes dashed rapidly over the Angels as she stepped up to the Doctor.

"No, go." The Time Lord said, making a gesture.

"Oh, no you don't." Still keeping her eyes on as many Angels as possible, she grabbed the Doctor's arm and started pulling him out of the jacket.

"Go!_" _He roared suddenly. The Poet was about to pay no heed, but a spark of understanding darted between them in the blink of an eye. The Time Lady pointed at him meaningfully before backing up into the forest as far as she was able, and then turned on her heel and ran. She tumbled through the tree "borgs", slipping slightly on bits of wet moss and dirt, turned and careening down the path until she bounded to a halt where the others had inexplicably stopped. Amy was lying on her side on a raised stone, staring off into space. River was kneeling next to her, checking her pulse and other stats with her med scanner.

"Amy?" The Poet walked over to kneel opposite to River, straightening her tie a little. "What's wrong?" Amy didn't answer. River and Octavian were arguing.

"Father Octavian, while the Doctor's in the room, your one and only mission is to keep him alive long enough to get everyone out safely. And trust me, it's not easy. Now if he's dead back there, I'll never forgive myself, and if he's alive, I'll never forgive him." River said. The Poet cleared her throat, looking over River's shoulder. The latter made a face. "And Doctor, you're standing right behind me, aren't you?"

"Oh, yeah." The Doctor said smugly, hopping down from the ledge on which he was standing. He had lost his jacket at some point along the way, now just in his pinkish shirt and bracers. River turned around, smiling tightly.

"I hate you." She grinned.

"You don't. Bishop, the Angels are in the forest." He bounded down to crouch next to River, Amy and the Poet.

"We need visual contact on every line of approach." Octavian declared.

"How did you get past them?" River hissed to the Time Lords, the Doctor especially. He straightened up.

"I found a crack in the wall and told them it was the end of the universe." He said innocently.

"What was it?" Amy asked deadly, still staring into space. The Doctor's expression shifted slightly.

"The end of the universe. Let's have a look, then." He grabbed the med scanner from River's hand and peered overly closely at it.

"What wrong with me?" Amy asked in that concerning tone of hers.

"Nothing, you're fine." River comforted.

"Everything, you're dying." The Doctor said.

"Doctor!"

"Right, if we lie to her, she'll get all better. Right, Amy, Amy, what's the matter with Amelia? Something's in her eye, what does that mean? Does it mean anything?"

"Doctor . . ." Amy whimpered.

"Busy."

"Scared!" She sounded close to tears.

"Of course you're scared, you're dying—shut up!" The Doctor stood up and took a few paces, frowning slightly. "She stared at an Angel. She looked into the eyes of an Angel for too long . . ."

"Sir, Angel, incoming!" A cleric interrupted from a few metres away. Another made a similar claim from a different direction. The Doctor paced back and forth, slapping his hands on the sides of his head.

"Come on, come on, wakey wakey." He said. "She watched an Angel climb out of the screen, she stared at the image of an Angel and, and—"

"The image of an Angel is an Angel." Amy breathed.

"A living mental image in a living human mind. We stare at them to stop them getting close, we don't even blink, and that is exactly what they want." The Doctor was kneeling down by the women again, on a roll. "'Cause as long as our eyes are open, they can climb inside. There's an Angel in her mind!" He slapped a hand over his mouth, like he hadn't meant to say that much, that loud, that close to Amy. River and the Poet looked down at her, mouths slightly agape at the realisation.

"Three." The girl stated. "Doctor, it's coming, I can feel it. I'm going to die!"

"Please just shut up, I'm thinking." The Doctor told her. The rhythmic beeping of Amy's pulse on the med scanner sounded very loud in the quiet, fake forest; loud as bells. "Now counting—what's that about?" He put the radio up to his mouth, stalking around again. "Bob, why are they making her count?"

"To make her afraid, sir." Came Angel Bob's unnervingly calm voice.

"Okay, but why, what for?"

"For fun, sir." The beat of silence, only a heartbeat long as everyone took in the three words, was an tense as anything. The Doctor reacted first. He looked around in frustration, yelled out and hurled the radio against a tree.

"Doctor, what's happening to me? Explain." Amy asked fearfully, quietly.

"Inside your head, in the vision centres of your brain, there's an Angel. It's like there's a screen, a virtual screen inside your mind and the Angel is climbing out of it, and it's coming . . . to shut you off."

"The what do I do?"

"If it was a real screen, what would be do? We'd pull the plug, we'd kill the power. But we can't just knock her out, the Angel would just take over!"

"Then what?" River asked. "Quickly!"

"We've got to shut down the vision centres of her brain, we've got to pull the plug, starve the Angel!"

River was looking at the heart rate on the med scanner, now much more worried. "Doctor, she's got seconds."

"How would you starve your lungs?"

"I'd stop breathing." River supplied, not taking her eyes from the scanner or Amy.

"Amy, close your eyes." The Doctor instructed urgently.

"No, no, I don't want to." Amy moaned.

"Good, 'cause that's not you, that's the Angel inside you. It's afraid! Do it! Close your eyes!" Amy looked up at the Doctor for a moment, and then reluctantly shut her eyes. There was a tense pause as the other three exchanged a look before the med scanner beeped rapidly. River looked down at the regulating heart rate.

"She's normalising." River breathed, and let out a relieved gasp to match the Doctor's. "You did it! You did it!" The Poet puffed out her cheeks and sighed, relaxing. River took the band off from around Amy's arm and put it and the scanner away.

"Still weak." She concluded. "Dangerous to move her."

"Can I open my eyes now?" Amy asked.

"Amy, listen to me." The Doctor warned. "If you open your eyes now for more than a second, you will die. The Angel is still inside you. We haven't stopped it, we've just sort of . . . paused it. You've used up your countdown. You cannot open your eyes."

"Doctor, we're too exposed here." Octavian cut in. "We have to move on."

"We're too exposed everywhere, and Amy can't move. And anyway, that's not the plan."

"There's a plan?" River asked.

"I don't know yet, I haven't finished talking." He jumped up to a higher point of ground and clapped his hands together decisively. "Right! Father, you and your clerics, you're gonna stay here, look after Amy. If anything happens to her, I'll hold every single one of you personally responsible, _twice._ River, you and me, we're going to go and find the primary flight deck, which is . . ." He licked his finger and held it up as though testing the wind. "A quarter of a mile straight ahead, and from there we're going to stabilise the wreckage, stop the Angels and cure Amy."

"How?" River asked.

"I'll do a thing."

"What thing?"

"I don't know, it's a thing in progress. Respect the thing. Moving out!" He turned to the Poet. "You stay here with the clerics and help look after Amy."

"Couldn't have said it better myself." The Time Lady said as she stood, brushing dirt from her knees. "As long as you take Alistair with you. He'll be better off with you lot."

The Doctor gave her a long look. "Can I trust you with Amy's safety?" He asked lowly.

"Can I trust you with Alistair's?"

The two people, both ancient as time and young as youth, stared each other down for several seconds that seemed to last years. After those several long moments, the Poet nodded and adjusted her bowler cap. "Nothing will happen to Amy, I swear on my life."

"I'm going to need something better than that."

"Then I swear on, on . . ." She looked around in exasperation for a second, thinking. "I swear on the trees of Gallifrey. On their silver leaves, I swear nothing will hurt her."

The Doctor inclined his head, swallowed, and looked back up. "Okay."

The Poet nodded at him and stepped over to Alistair. "Go with the Doctor and River." She told him. "They'll keep you safe."

"What about you?" He asked, looking around nervously. "Aren't you coming?"

"I need to stay here and protect Amy. I can't have two gingers on my hands." The Poet smiled crookedly. "You'll be better with them than with me right now. Trust the Doctor like you would trust me." She looked over Alistair's shoulder at the retreating River and Octavian. "Off you go, then, Donovan."

"Please, Doctor, can't I come with you?" Amy asked from behind them.

"You'd only slow us down, Miss Pond." Octavian called back.

"I don't want to sound selfish, but you'd really speed me up!" Amy snapped back. The Doctor sat down next to her and began talking lowly. The Poet turned back to Alistair.

"You know the rules." She said sternly. "Don't wander off. Do as you're told. Don't ask stupid questions." The woman poked his chest. "And in this case . . . don't blink."

"You don't need to reteach me like a child." Alistair sulked. After a pause, he sighed. "Don't get mortally wounded and regenerate while I'm gone. It was weird adjusting last time; I don't want to do it again." He cracked a dry grin. The Poet nodded and gave a little salute.

"Can do." She turned around as the Doctor raised his voice to speak to everyone.

"Good luck everyone, do not let that girl open her eyes! And keep watching the forest, stop the Angels advancing. Amy, later." He patted her red head. "River, going to need your computer!"

Alistair started off after Octavian and River, followed by the Doctor. The Poet stood in place for a moment and put her hands in her pocket, pushing her jacket side to do so. She looked around at the clerics, and the occasional peaceful stone face half-shadowed in the forest's uneven light. She turned to go sit by Amy, and froze as solid as a Weeping Angel. A cold chill rattled through her. Kneeling in front of the girl, murmuring quietly to her, was the Doctor. The Poet looked to her right. _Another _Doctor, without the jacket, was peering at his sonic not fifty paces away.

The Time Lady said nothing to or about the paradox. She simply and silently sat down next to Amy. The jacketed Doctor looked up at her as he stood, his expression a mixture of sad acceptance and happiness. A moment later, he promptly disappeared. The Poet nodded to herself before putting a hand on Amy's shoulder.

"All right, Amy?" She asked quietly. "Don't worry. I don't eavesdrop."

"Yeah." She said dejectedly. "All right. You staying here with me, then?"

"Yes. I swore to the Doctor I would keep you safe so I think I'll do just that." She said lightly. "So, do we make small talk now, is that how it works?"

Amy smiled a little, looking to the general direction of the Poet. "I suppose." She seemed to think for a moment. "Poet . . . are you really a Time Lord, like the Doctor? What do you call a female Time Lord?"

The Poet was taken a little aback, but had anticipated such a question. "Yes." She answered quietly. "I escaped before things could become . . . lethal, on our home planet. I heard many Earth years later of what the Doctor did and, well . . . I didn't really want to find him. But now I have, and I suppose I would be lying if I said that after all these years, I was not happy to see the only other of my kind." The Poet nudged her. "And we are Time Ladies, appropriately. Though in plural, we are Time Lords all."

"Huh. Lords and ladies . . . What did the Doctor do?" Amy asked curiously.

The Poet sighed. "My dear, that's not my secret to tell."

Amy twisted her mouth in what seemed like frustration. "You're just like the Doctor, all _secretive._" She raised her voice. "So, what's happening? Anything happening out there?"

"The Angels are still grouping." A man said to the women. They looked up as the lights in the forest wavered dramatically between light and almost complete darkness.

"Are you getting this too?" Marco called.

"The trees? Yeah." Said the first cleric.

"What's wrong with the trees?" Amy asked.

"The Angels are ripping apart the wiring in the tree-borgs." The Poet muttered. "Taking out the lights."

"Can't you stop them?" She hissed back.

"I'm an alien, not a wizard." The Poet said as Amy stood up at the clerics' continuous commands to each other, calls about approaching Angels. "Amy, sit. Everything's fine. Eyes shut." She winced and turned to look as a blinding light consumed a large stretch of the forest. She frowned and shielded her eyes.

"Is the ship on fire?" Someone asked. The Poet turned in the general direction of the voice.

"Did you just ask that?" She inquired incredulously. "Have you ever even _seen _fire? Does that look like fire to you?"

"A-apologies, ma'am, I simply meant—"

"Yes, yes." She waved a hand flippantly. The lights went out and on again, but when there was once again illumination in the forest, the Angels had disappeared. The Poet looked around.

"Marco, the Angels have gone." A cleric called over.

"Where'd they go?" He asked.

"The Angels?" Amy asked, turning to where she thought the Poet was.

"The Angels are all gone." The Time Lady muttered. "They're running."

"Running where? What could scare them?"

"Working on it." The Poet replied and looked up as a cleric spoke.

"Phillip, Crispin . . ." He gestured at the light. "Need to get a closer look at that."

The Poet clapped her hands together and hopped up on a rock. "Listen here, everyone!" She called. "That light is making Weeping Angels run for their sorry lives. If you have any interest in continuing your own, you'll stay far away!"

"Don't worry, ma'am." He replied as Phillip and Crispin jogged toward the brilliant light. "We just need stats and a closer look."

"What're you all looking at? What's there?" Amy called, looking around in panic.

"Amy, stay exactly where you are!" The Poet leapt down from her perch. "Keep your eyes closed under every circumstance and don't move!" She walked closer. "It's just a light. No need to panic."

"It's like . . . a curtain of energy, sort of shifting. Makes you feel weird." The cleric paused. "Sick."

"And you think it scared the Angels?" Amy asked.

"Cracks in the skin of the universe." The Poet was wringing her hands, pacing around. "Affecting time, _changing _time, how? Time can be changed, yes, rewritten. Just from cracks? Sucking things in—" She paused. "No. No, no, no, can't be. Can't be! Can't it? Oh, no, you don't, Amy!" The Poet darted over and slapped her hand over Amy's face, closing her eyes.

"It's the shape from my bedroom wall. It's following me. How can it be following me?" Amy sat with a shuddering breath.

"Do not. Open. Your. Eyes." The Time Lady enunciated each word forcefully and stood back up.

"You want me to take a closer look at that?" Pedro asked.

"Go for it." Marco replied.

"Oh, just wait for the others!" The Poet snapped, now having resumed her pacing. She shook her head. "Humans, so impatient."

"What others, ma'am?" Marco asked. The Poet came to a halt and turned her head to stare at the cleric.

"The two men you sent not a few minutes ago to investigate the light. Wait for them to come back." She said the words very clearly and firmly, as if to a child.

"I didn't send anyone before." Marco replied, confused. The Poet stepped over and gently pulled Amy back into a standing position before kneeling in her place. She levelled her gaze seriously with that of the perplexed Marco.

"You ordered two men to investigate the light. Their names were Crispin and Phillip. You ordered them to investigate and they have not yet returned. Do you know these men?"

Marco furrowed his brow. "Crispin and who?"

The Poet stood, throwing her arms out. "No one ever listens! Why doesn't anyone ever listen to me? Damn it . . ." She sighed and spun in a quick circle. "Okay . . . okay. Doesn't remember . . . the crack sucking things in. Time is written. Sucking things in . . . time is unwritten."

"Poet, there never was a Crispin or a Phillip on this mission." Marco insisted.

"Yes, I know, believe what you want." The Poet snapped. "Now shut up, I'm thinking."

"But—Poet, I remember them! There _were _both a Crispin and a Phillip here!" Amy exclaimed, looking around in an attempt to pin down the Poet's wandering voice. "Why doesn't he remember them?"

"Thinking!" The Time Lady rubbed her temples. "Time is unwritten. Unwritten. How?" She stopped and snapped her fingers. "Of course. Of course." She turned around, and was confronted with only Amy, sitting there with a communicator in her hand. The Poet skid over and grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling the human up urgently. "Amy, I'm sorry, but we've all made a grave mistake. We have to leave, now."

"Why? What's going on? Poet, what's happening?"

"We need to move, just trust me." The Poet took the communicator and held her sonic up to it. She listened for a moment and turned a few degrees to the right. "Let's go." She grabbed Amy's hand and started tugging her forward.

"What about the other guy?" The redhead asked.

"He's gone, I'm sorry, but there's nothing that we can do for him now." She changed the frequency on her sonic and held it up to the radio before hitting the button. "Doctor, Poet to Doctor. Come in, Doctor."

"Oh, good." The Doctor said from the other side, obviously relieved. "Are the clerics with you?"

"No. They all went to investigate that light. Amy and I are on our way now." She lowered her voice. "I know what it is, I won't let it catch up to us. Primary flight deck, right?"

"Right. Watch the Angels on the way, and don't lose Amy."

"I don't think they're interested in us anymore." The Poet pondered quietly. "But I'm fairly sure they'll still kill us." She let off the radio for a moment. "Watch the ledge, Amy."

"Poet, what's that light?"

"Just come on, don't worry, we'll be fine."

"_What is it?"_

The Poet made a noise of irritation, now almost totally dragging Amy along. "It's pure time energy. If we get sucked into the crack, we won't just die, every memory of our existence will be erased. We will never have been born, _ever._" Amy stopped moving, apparently frozen by fear. The Poet yanked on her sharply, trying to pull her along. "Come on, Amy!" She insisted. "We can't stop, come _on_!"

Amy took a hesitant step, and that was all that was required. The women started forward again, the Poet insistently tugging Amy along. The former sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of almost a dozen Angels, all frozen in their positions of flight as they ran from the crack in the universe, but continued on nonetheless without saying anything to Amy. She looked up as the lights went down for a moment once more.

"Keep your eyes closed, Amy." The Poet breathed, unable to keep the strain from her voice.

"What, what's going on now?"

"There are . . . Angels, now. Don't worry, they don't really care about us right now. They're running scared. Now let's just keep on." She tugged Amy's hand, carefully navigating through the Angels. "Come on, faster now. Almost there—careful!" Amy stumbled on something and tumbled down. The Poet pulled her up in the same second and continued on. "Not much longer now, you're doing excel—"

Her speech was cut off as their surroundings drastically changed, from the dark forest to a brightly-lit but fairly small room. The Poet stumbled a little upon arrival, blinking harshly. She saw Amy topple over, only to be caught and carefully lowered down by River.

"Don't open your eyes." The blond woman comforted. "You're on the primary flight deck. The Doctor is here. I transported you." She looked up to grin smugly at the Doctor as the Poet swayed and leaned against a console. "See? Told you I'd get it working."

"Oh, transporting. How convenient." The Poet groaned, holding her head. "Nausea. Gets me every bloody time. Whew. Good timing, though." She smiled at Alistair, who grinned nervously back.

"River Song, I could bloody kiss you." The Doctor exclaimed, dramatically flipping a few switches.

"Ah, well, maybe when you're older." River sighed and shrugged a shoulder. An alarm squawked overhead, red lights flashing. "What is that?"

"Last of the ship's power, I should think." The Poet rubbed her middle and rolled her neck to start feeling better.

"Precisely." The Doctor said, looking up for a moment. "The Angels are grabbing at the ship's power, draining it out. Which means . . ." He moved around the console to stand in front of the flight deck's main door to the forest. "The shield's going to release!" The four waited for a moment as the door slid up. Every Angel in the ship was crowded at the threshold to the room, faces contorted in rage, arms reaching out. The statues went back as far as they could see. There was one front and centre, looking on peacefully, hands at its sides. "Angel Bob, I presume?"

"The time field is coming." Angel Bob said, its mouth not moving. "It will destroy our reality."

"Yeah, look at you all, running away." The Doctor sneered. "What can I do for you?"

"There is a rupture in time. The Angels calculate that if you throw yourself into it, it will close, and they will be saved."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, could do. Could do that. But why?"

"Your friends would also be saved."

"Well, there is that."

The Poet stepped forward, no longer ill. "I'll go in. I'm just as complicated as you are, the crack will close behind me, too."

"Oh, come now. I've only just met you; I don't make a habit of throwing people I've just met into the fire at the end of the universe."

River walked forward now, too, setting Amy on a console. "I've travelled in time, too. I'm a complicated space-time event, throw me in."

"Come on." The Doctor almost snorted. "Compared to us, these Angels are more complicated than you, and it would take every single one of them to amount to even one of us, so get a grip."

"Doctor, I can't let you do this!" River grabbed his arm insistently.

"No, seriously, get a grip." The Doctor repeated. The Poet blinked, thought for a second, grinned, and then walked back to the consoles to grab on one of the metal handles. Alistair, who had been standing around helplessly until now, followed her example and grabbed the handle, too.

"You're not going to die here!" River cried.

"River!" The Poet snapped. The woman turned to look over her shoulder, and took in what the Time Lady and her companion were doing. "_Get a grip._" River's mouth fell open slightly, and she looked between the Time Lords as a huge grin broke out over her face. "Oh, you geniuses." She dashed back to Amy and made sure the girl was holding onto something.

"Sir, the Angels need you or the Poet to sacrifice yourselves now." Angel Bob said.

"Thing is, Bob," The Doctor said, angling his head as he spoke. "The Angels are draining all the power from this ship. Every last bit of it and you know what? I think they've forgotten where they're standing. I think they've forgotten the _gravity _of the situation. Or to put it another way, Angels . . ." The Doctor grinned. "Night-night." He fell forward, grabbing onto the metal handle next to the Poet as the gravity of the _Byzantium _failed completely. They all looked below them as the Angels, unable to move, tumbled down toward the crack—every single one of them. Some fell against tree-borgs on the way down, making sounds like light bulbs dropping as they smashed apart.

-o-

"Ow!" The Poet made a face and grabbed her nose. "Bloody chameleon circuit . . ." She muttered, and began waving her hands out in front of her to find the invisible TARDIS. Her hands made contact with something smooth, and then slid around to find the knob. "A-ha!" She exclaimed, and turned to the Doctor and Alistair, the former of whom was looking with fearful hope. The Poet grinned and threw open the TARDIS door to reveal a colourful set of varied fur coats, stuffed tightly together. She pushed them aside and disappeared inside for a moment. A few seconds later, the chameleon circuit was shut off to reveal a simple, rectangular, dark-wood wardrobe that was just a bit antique.

The Poet poked her head out from between the coats and beckoned to the Doctor. "You wanted more proof. Here it is." She went back inside and leaned against the banister around the console, arms crossed. The Doctor entered a moment later, and his expression instantly shifted to an enormous grin. "Convinced?"

"It's bigger on the inside." Alistair groaned tiredly and flopped down in a chair, running a hand through his red hair.

"It most certainly is." The Doctor nodded and laughed a little giddily. He glanced back at Amy and River as they peered in, the former stepping in a few paces.

"She wasn't kidding." Amy said, awestruck. "She is a Time Lady! Time Lord." She waved a hand. "Whatever."

"Well, I'll be damned." River smiled. The Poet straightened up from writing something down on a piece of paper and jumped over to hand it to the Doctor. He looked down and looked over the paper before flipping it over and writing something on the other side. The Poet accepted it and read it. Alistair peered over her shoulder. It just seemed to be a series of interlocked and overlapping circles, dots and lines, but the Poet and Doctor were looking at it like a language. The latter walked out of the TARDIS, River and Amy following. The Poet swiftly set fire to the little piece of paper.

"So, what was that all about?" Alistair took a seat again. "Giving him you mobile number?" The Poet laughed and turned a few switches.

"That's more accurate than you think. This used to happen a lot when there were more Time Lords." She typed a very specific set of numbers and letters into the TARDIS and double-checked it before continuing to walk about. "Very convenient way of travelling in large groups, with less chance of someone getting lost along the way. Now it's just us two; haven't done this in a while, Donovan, so if we end up inside a star, don't be alarmed." She set a few dials to precise settings and pulled down on the big lever. The TARDIS jerked in that familiar way, and the Poet grabbed onto the banister to steady herself.

"What do you mean, 'if we end up inside a star'?" Alistair asked, grabbing his chair. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see." The TARDIS shuddered to a stop, and the Poet walked calmly to the door and peeked out. She wasn't greeted by fiery gases and searing pain, but instead a very pleasant sight indeed. She looked over her shoulder with her smirked and jerked her head at Alistair. "Come here. You're going to love this." She bounced out. Alistair joined her a moment later a blinked, slightly confused.

"Where are we?" He asked, looking around the small room. The Poet wordlessly walked out the room and turned a corner. There was a barked laughed and she came back round.

"Over here." She beckoned and walked away again. Alistair rolled his eyes and followed. Once around the corner, however, he stopped in his tracks.

"Oh my god." He muttered.

"Yep."

"Is this even possible?"

"Of course!"

"A TARDIS . . . _inside _a TARDIS?"

The Poet turned and grinned at him. "Exactly."

-o-

_Whew, sorry about the total epicness. Next chapter will have even more original content in it, so tell me what you think now! _


	5. Memories

_Things might get contorted out of shape in this chapter…lots of flashbacks. From a slightly different POV this time round, too. Sorry about this chapter's topsy-turvyness, I kind of wanted to do "Amy's Choice", as there are lots of opportunities for the Poet's character development, thanks to the "Dream Lord"._

_W'P_

"_Recalling days of sadness, memories haunt me. Recalling days of happiness, I haunt my memories". -Robert Brault_

_-o-_

"Oh, I forgot one thing." The Poet said to Alistair as they waited a few minutes in the Doctor's TARDIS. She reached into her jacket and pulled something flashing silver out. "Even more proof."

"What's that?" Alistair asked absently, still staring around. The current situation was completely unlike anything he had seen thus far. The Poet held it up for him to see. It was a silver pocket watch, unremarkably plain on the outside. Alistair raised an eyebrow and reached out to inspect it, but was denied.

"Sorry, Donovan. Bit personal." The Time Lady held onto it and smiled. "Special Time Lord things." Alistair made a face.

"Half the things you say are a _bit personal_." He huffed, walking around. Alistair could remember back when he first met the Poet, had thought she was just a mad lady who lived in a wardrobe. She had looked different back then, before she changed. He'd learned so much from his time travelling with her, and had seen many strange things, but had not been hard-pressed to top his encounter with the Time Lady with anything stranger . . .

-f-

_Alistair Donovan was on the phone. He nodded occasionally, eyes glued to the telly. The room was a mess, scattered with old bags of crisps and empty beer cans. "Uh huh. Uh huh. Yep. Right. Got it." He stabbed a button on the mobile and jammed it in his pocket before standing. He walked out to the balcony of his apartment and squinted at the sunlight. He yawned, stretched, and was about to turn back into the flat when someone called from above him._

"_Hello!" Alistair looked up at the source of the voice, confused, as he had a flat on the top floor. He stepped back to get a better look. Waving at him was a woman, not a lot older than himself, with straight brown hair that hung over her shoulder. "Hello!"_

"_Er . . . hello?" Alistair said, further perplexed. The woman lowered herself over the edge and dropped down next to him. She shook his hand happily, and he could have sworn he saw golden sparkles as she moved._

"_Hello, the Poet, good to meet you. Have you seen anything out of the ordinary in this area, anything at all?" She peered over his shoulder, craning her neck to see into his flat. Alistair noticed that she was scraped and dirtied, like she had gotten into a fight._

"_No, nothing. Wait, who are you again?" _

"_I'm the Poet." She said, still trying to see around him. She walked up to the building and sniffed the brick. She touched a finger to her tongue and held it up, testing the wind. "What year is this? Two thousand . . . eight, yes?"_

"_What? No, it's 2018. Why, how do you not know what year it is? You're a decade off." Alistair frowned at the strange woman as she leaned dangerously far over the balcony to look at the street below. _

"_Interesting." She muttered and turned promptly around, grinning. "I'm sorry, I've been terribly rude. What's your name?"_

"_Uh, Alistair. Alistair Donovan." He said, hesitantly shaking her hand again._

"_Ah, good name. Love it. Always liked Alistair, like a king's name." The Poet smirked and smacked his shoulder. "Okay, Alistair Donovan with a name like a king, would you like to help me find a wardrobe?"_

"What?_" He asked. The woman pushed past him into his flat, looking around curiously. "How do you lose an entire wardrobe?"_

"_With great difficulty." She replied, and suddenly yelped, taking a knee. Alistair hurried forward and helped her up, but let out a short yell of panic of his own. The Poet had a hand to her torso, just below her ribs, grimacing. She pulled her hand back and looked at it, splotched with red. She chuckled and shook her head a little. "How was I walking around?" Her gaze turned up to Alistair. "Step back." She ordered._

"_No way, you need an ambulance!" He cried. "You could die!"_

"_No, no, no, no, step BACK!" She shouted. Alistair looked around helplessly as he backed up. The Poet stood up, wiping her bloody hand on her clothes and holding it up to Alistair in an attempt to be comforting. "What you are about to see will defy everything you've ever known, but be aware that it is perfectly normal and in no way dangerous to me or you." She pursed her lips and blew as though she were smoking, and curling streams of sparkling gold seeped from her mouth. "Ah. Better."_

_The Poet rolled her shoulders, stood up straighter, threw back her head and spread her arms with another cry. Alistair stumbled back, like he had just been pushed by a strong wind. Rivers of rushing gold shot from the Poet's arms and face. Her mouth was open, and she must have been screaming, but Alistair was in too much shock to register much at the moment. After a few minutes, the woman blew out a sigh and relaxed. _

_Alistair took a double-take. She looked completely different than before. Her hair was very short and black, where it had once been down to her shoulders and light brown. Not only were her hair, eyes, and stature different, but so was every aspect of her face. This was a completely different woman than had been injured. Grinning, she looked at her hands and wiggled her fingers._

"_Ooh, excellent!" The Poet gushed. "Fingers! Legs! Lovely legs and arms." She felt her face and clacked her teeth together. "New face. New teeth!" Her hands ran through her hair, and her expression changed, though stayed on the same page as 'excited'. "I'm a boy!" She looked down at herself. "Oh, nevermind. Still a woman." She smacked her mouth and looked around. "Have any clothes I can borrow? Oh, and I'll want every pickle in the house." The Poet grinned and danced off at Alistair's dumbfounded pointing to his room._

_The ginger man wobbled around to the kitchen and collapsed in a chair. There was water running in the other room. He looked around, blinking in shock and ran a hand through his hair. It was surreal. Someone couldn't just _change _into another person! It wasn't possible! He took a few shaking breaths and looked around. She had said she wanted every . . . pickle? Alistair went to the fridge and slowly took the jar out and set it on the kitchen table. _

_A few minutes of his desperately coping later, the Poet leapt back through the doorway. "Loving it!" She sang. Her attire had changed to a white collared shirt he had, covered by a black jacket with a thin black tie around her neck. She had taken a pair of his black slacks and was wearing a bowler hat he had only used for a Halloween party one year. She tapped it happily. "This is brilliant. Never wore a _hat _before. Everything's different!" The Poet strode over and grabbed the pickle jar, cracking it open and digging in._

"_So," She said past the smelly food. "Are you going to help me find my wardrobe?"_

"_But—you—what just happened?" Alistair hadn't realised his voice had gone up a few octaves. "You were dying!"_

"_Regenerated." The Poet said flippantly. "I get wounded, I start to die, and I regenerate." She drank some of the vinegar-pickle water in the jar and smacked her lips. "Different each time. See, I've had cravings before, but never for pickles." She toasted him with the pickle jar and took another from inside. "So, are you going to help me with my little problem? It might be considerably easier now. A considerably large amount easier."_

"_I—" Alistair sighed. "Yeah, okay. Where do you think it is?"_

"_No idea." The Poet grinned and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Might as well find out, eh?"_

_-f-_

"Donovan!" The Poet's voice pulled him from his reverie. He snapped his head over and saw her jerking a thumb back to her TARDIS, walking down from the upper, clear platform that held the console. The Doctor and Amy were talking up above, the former dialling in a destination of one type or another. "Heading out."

"But we only just got here. Aren't you going to talk with them or something, like you usually do?" Alistair asked, following her into the wardrobe. "I thought you would be especially excited this time, for pretty obvious reasons."

"Well, yeah, 'course I am!" The Poet hopped up to her console and began flipping switches. "Those two are going off on their own for a bit. Amy wants to go home." She looked over at him. "You were just standing there. What were you thinking about?"

"Oh, uh, just remembering when we met." He replied, leaning against the banister. The Poet smirked a little at the memory.

"Ah, yes. Lost my TARDIS." She chuckled. "You saw me regenerate. Probably not the best way to introduce myself. Or maybe the best way. Surprised you came along with me that day . . ."

-f-

_Alistair raised an eyebrow as they stepped out of the building to face a tall, dark wardrobe that had inexplicably appeared on his doorstep. "How is that here?" He asked. "That wasn't here before. I just went out an hour ago for lunch and that was _definitely _not here."_

"_It wouldn't be." The Poet said, grinning as she jumped forward to open it. "Ooh, all new coats, too." She grabbed one and put it on. "Cosy. Now, let's see what she—ow!" The Poet reached into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out a key that glowed hot in the palm of her hand. She smiled and slid it into a little lock in the wardrobe. _

"_Why does your wardrobe lock? What could be in there that you need to lock?" Alistair asked as the Poet opened pushed her way through the soft coats, deep enough into the wardrobe that Alistair couldn't see her. "Poet? What are you doing?"_

_He stepped forward and the woman poked her head out, grinning hugely. "Would you like to come in?"_

"_Into . . . a wardrobe?"_

"_Oh, no, no, no, this is much more than a wardrobe." The Poet held out a hand, smiling knowingly. "If you come in, you can come along, too."_

_Alistair paused. He bounced on the balls of his feet, looked all around for a moment and then took her hand. "Come along—whoa!" His question was cut off as the Poet pulled him forward. The furs and jumpers brushed past his face as he was dragged deep into the wardrobe, too deep to make sense. The coats vanished suddenly, and Alistair stumbled into open space. After getting his bearings, his jaw slowly began to drop as he looked around. _

_The room was enormous, a circular console in the centre at the top of a transparent set of wide steps. Colourful lights flashed on the console, with levers and switches and dials galore. Contrasting the alien technology was a lovely, old-fashioned parlour on top of a balcony, looking over the main room. There was even an oil painting on the wall behind the cushioned chairs. _

"_Oh . . . my god." Alistair breathed and laughed nervously. "This is absolutely _impossible."

"_No, you just haven't seen it yet." The Poet threw her arms out, still wearing a fluffy grey coat, and spun in a dramatic circle. "A TARDIS. My TARDIS. Time and relative dimensions in space. Would you like to come with me? Been feeling a bit lonely lately."_

"_Go _where?_" Alistair exclaimed, stepping a little further into the TARDIS._

"_Anywhere. Anywhere, at all. Everywhere and anywhere in time and space, anything that's happened or ever will, anywhere that exists, existed or will exist." The Poet jumped over to him, throwing the heavy coat off, and grinned eccentrically, standing nose-to-nose with the red-haired human. "Where would you like to begin?"_

-f-

She slammed her hand down on a lever. "I think we'll go to Venice."

"Venice?" Alistair circled her as she walked around the console. "I could go there any time I wanted. Well, not really, but you know what I mean."

"You underestimate me, Alistair." The Poet scoffed. "I have a _time machine._" The man made a face.

"Well, yeah . . ." He said pathetically as the TARDIS shuddered to a halt. They both went for the door, pushing past the soft coats, and peered outside. Venice was warm and balmy, birds squawking above them. The water in the canals sloshed loudly, and the chatter of the Venetian people in the marketplace accompanied the onslaught of other noises. Chickens pecked along the pavement, clucking. Merchants called out to advertise their wares, holding up food and pottery, fresh-caught fish and hand-woven clothing.

"Hey, hey!" The Poet jumped out of the TARDIS and gestured dramatically around. "Venice! Impressed yet, Donovan?"

"Yeah, I sort of am . . ." He pondered, looking up and squinting. "We seem to be a bit late to the party, though." He pointed to the top of a bell tower, where ominous black smoke was pouring out, and then to the thing next to which they had parked—a blue police box. The Poet looked at the box and then followed his gaze up to the bell tower. Soon enough, people from other parts of the city ran through the small marketplace, screaming. The merchants and buyers caught on and ran with them, leaving the Poet and Alistair suddenly alone with the confused chickens and wrecked stalls.

"I don't know," The Poet muttered, taking a step forward and frowning at the smoke as the sky began to turn from grey to charcoal. Lightning cracked through the clouds, and over the thunder and roaring wind, the endless tolling of a bell could be heard.

"Oh, no." Alistair said fearfully, holding his hands up and backing up. "We are _not _going to investigate the evil black gas. No, no. Not this time. I'm supposed to be on _holiday._" He sighed as the Poet took off down the street and dashed around a corner. "Okay. Fun." He ran after her, still muttering to himself. "Ooh, what's that? Deadly black smoke that I don't know about? Let's go see what it is! Ugh."

It didn't take long for them to wind their way to the bell tower, as the sky grew ever darker above them. In the centre of town, rain was pouring in messy spatters from the roiling clouds above them. The pair skidded around a corner and into a courtyard around the tower. Civilians were still in a panic, screaming and running from the source of the smoke. Only two people were not in complete hysterics, standing and looking up at the source of the black stuff. One was a young woman with deep red hair, and the other was a young man the Poet didn't recognize. She jogged up to them, following their gaze.

"Hello, Amy." She gasped, holding her side and stretching out. Alistair, a few steps behind her, was huffing and puffing like nothing before. "Mind filling me in?"

"Oh!" Amy jumped a little, looking at the Poet with surprise. "Where have _you _been? Could've used some help lately!"

"Sorry. Came a bit late." She leaned around the young woman and held out a hand to the man. "Hello, I'm the Poet."

"Um, Rory Williams." The bloke, looking between her and the tower, seemed unable to decide where to settle his gaze.

"So, where's our dear Doctor?" Amy, Rory and Alistair all pointed in unison at the top of the tower. The Poet looked up and squinted through the pouring rain. A small tweed-jacketed Doctor was clambering to a gold orb on top of the dark shingles. The human and non-human onlookers held their breath as he slowly edged up to the orb and wrenched it open. He tinkered around with the insides, which the Poet could see was filled with oddly advanced technology, though of what planet she couldn't be sure from the distance. A few tense moments later, the smoke cleared from the sky. Any lingering people who had been running stopped and cheered. The Doctor waved at them from high up. The four below waved back.

A few minutes later, the Doctor came jogging through the gate of the small castle that surrounded the bell tower. He grinned and pointed at Alistair and the Poet. "Hello, are you following me?" He laughed.

"Tried to take Alistair on holiday." The Poet elbowed the human, smiling. "Can't go anywhere these days."

"Tell me about it." The Doctor said. He looked over his shoulder at the gate he had just come through, his expression changing to one of worry. "Excuse me for a moment," And he turned and ran back the way he came.

The Poet turned to Amy and Rory, directing her attention to the latter. "So, who might you be?" She raised an eyebrow at the picture on his shirt, one of him and Amy grinning together in a heart.

Amy answered for him. "He's my fiancé." She said, patting his shoulder. "The Doctor brought here for some sort of romantic holiday, and, well, things got out of hand." Said Doctor came back a few minutes later, his smile back but now somewhat forced.

"So! Good to see you again, Alistair, very good to see you, Poet." The Time Lords shook hands happily. "Where've you two been off to?"

"Just got out of the _Byzantium._" The Poet smiled. "Seems like you've been about for some time longer than us."

"Yes, well," He looked back at the castle and shrugged. "Lots of things happening, long story. Now!" He began walking, back in the direction of the small marketplace where the TARDISs were. "What about you two, eh?" He said, referring to Amy and Rory. "Next stop, Leadworth registry office!" They were soon back in the market, where people were already trying to straighten up their stalls and crumpled wares. Chickens were still clucking about, picking at the crushed vegetables. "Maybe I can give you away!"

"It's fine." Rory said dejectedly, even hanging his head. "Just drop me of where you found me. I'll just say you've . . ." He trailed off.

"Stay." Amy chirped, smiling. "With us, please." She grinned at the Doctor and Poet, as though asking their permission. "Just for a bit. I want you to stay."

"Fine with me." The Doctor said happily.

"Yeah?" Rory asked, and then nodded. "Yes, I would like that." He laughed.

"Nice one!" Amy cooed, giving Rory a quick kiss. "I'll pop the kettle on. Hey, look at this." She opened the door to the Doctor's TARDIS. "Got my spaceship, got my boys! My work here is done." She hopped inside, leaving the Poet laughing behind.

"Uh, we are _not _her boys." Rory snorted.

"Yeah, we are." The Doctor patted both Rory and Alistair's shoulders, ushering them inside.

"Yeah, we are." Rory sighed and followed Alistair inside. The Poet remained outside, heading toward her own TARDIS. She and the Doctor both suddenly stopped at their doorways and looked out at the marketplace. The babble of talk, the chickens, the rustling of hay, it had all gone suddenly quiet. They exchanged a glance and looked out at the lifeless market.

"Do you hear that?" The Doctor muttered, frowning around.

"No." The Poet murmured, sharing his look.

"Exactly." The Time Lords gave each other another look and went back inside their TARDISs.

_Sorry about the shortness. I want to get to the next episode and starting it mid-chapter here would be a little odd._


	6. Only A Dream

_Whoo, part one of probably two! There are a couple interactions between the Doctor and Poet in this one—with the introduction of the Dream Lord, I'm looking for (I hope) some character development here, as there's not much time right now to fit any "Time Lord Talking Time" in so those two can get things sorted._

_Tell me in reviews what you think of the Poet, as I'm not sure about her. Also, I have an idea for a Poet-and-Alistair adventure by themselves. Opinions are greatly appreciated! _

_W'P _

"_Dreams say what they mean, but they don't say it in daytime language." -Gail Godwin_

-o-

"Oh, can't you steer your own TARDIS right?" The Poet cried, clutching the handle attached to the Doctor's monitor. She cast a look at her wardrobe, sitting off to the side of the lobby, and reached forward to twist a knob and flick a switch simultaneously.

"It's supposed to have six drivers; I can't get it right _every_ time!" The Doctor countered, running around to try and fix the destination but failing. The machine came to a sighing halt. They looked up at the ceiling, as though the answer was there, before going to the door. The Doctor opened it and peeked out, ducking as the Poet stood on her tiptoes to peer over him. They had landed in the country, in the garden of a little cottage. They looked down at a cluster of colourful flowers that had been crushed under the blue box.

"Oops." The Poet muttered. "Good job."

"Not my fault!" The Doctor said defensively, though he was smirking. He stepped out of the police box, tripping over a stone that held the flowers. The Poet laughed and jumped out after him.

"Where do you reckon we . . . Rory!" The Poet grinned and waved at him as he stepped out of the house. She pointed back to the TARDIS and the Doctor. "We cut your flowers."

"Oh. Amy will kill you guys." He said.

"Where's Amy?" The Doctor asked, unfazed.

"She'll need a bit longer." Rory explained, looking a bit uncomfortable, as always.

"Whenever you're ready, Amy!" The Doctor called into the cottage. Amy came out a moment later, and both Time Lords yelled out happily, pointing at her. "You've swallowed a planet!"

"I'm pregnant." Amy laughed, holding her swollen belly and holding her back. The Poet reached out to rub her tummy, grinning.

"You're _huge._" The Doctor placed his hands on either side of her belly.

"Doctor, I'm pregnant."

"Look at you! When worlds collide!"

"She's pregnant, Doctor." The Poet chuckled quietly.

"Oh, look at you both, five years later and you haven't changed a bit." He hugged Amy and Rory, and the Poet did as well. "Apart from aging and . . . size." He gave the pregnant Amy a wary look.

"Oh, it's good to see you two." Amy grinned, rubbing her big tummy.

There was a short pause. "Are you pregnant?" The Doctor asked. Amy and the Poet giggled and walked back into the house, shortly followed by the boys. They went through the house and out onto the road, walking down to the little village not far from the cottage. The place was quaint, but there were no people on the streets but for the four companions.

"Ah, Leadworth." The Doctor said, looking around the town. "Vibrant as ever."

"It's Upper Leadworth, actually, we've gone slightly up market." Rory explained as they walked briskly along.

"Where is everybody?" The Poet spun in a quick circle to try and find anyone on the streets.

"This is busy." Amy said breathlessly. The Time Lords exchanged an eyebrow-raise and looked around again. "Okay, it's quiet, but it's really restful and healthy. Lots of people around here live well into their nineties."

"Well, don't let that get you down." The Doctor comforted.

"It's not getting me down!" Amy said defensively. They sat down on a bench in a little courtyard. The Poet, left standing for a moment, promptly plopped herself down on the Doctor's lap.

"Well, we just wanted to see how you were." The Doctor said, awkwardly putting his arms around the Poet. "You know me, I don't just abandon people when they leave the TARDIS. This Time Lord's polite. You don't get rid of your old pal, the Doctor, so easily."

"Mm, you came here by mistake, didn't you?" Amy asked.

"Yeah, pretty much a mistake." The Poet confirmed.

"But look, what a result. Look at this . . . bench." The Doctor said, looking at the bench they were all crammed onto. "What a nice bench. What will they think of next?" The four sat there awkwardly for a moment, twiddling their thumbs. "So . . . what do you do around here? You know, to stave off the self-harm?"

"Boredom?" Amy was about to finish his sentence and frowned at the Doctor's choice of words.

"We relax." Rory said, looking at them all and sitting back, nodding as though to assure himself. "We live. We listen to the birds." He added at the sound of birds singing nearby.

"Yeah, see? Birds." Amy said quickly. "Those are nice."

"We didn't get a lot of time to listen to birds back in the TARDIS days, did we?" Rory asked.

"Oh, blimey." The Doctor leaned his head forward to rest on the Poet's shoulder. "My head's a bit . . . ooh. No, you're right. There wasn't a lot of time for birdsong back in the good . . ." His head lolled back a little. "Old . . ." They were all struggling to stay awake now. After trying to keep their eyes open, all four quickly dozed off.

-o-

"Days!" The Doctor gasped from the floor of his TARDIS. The Poet, sitting against her own TARDIS, snapped open her eyes and looked around. "What? No. Yes! Sorry. What? Oh! You're okay. Good." The Doctor exclaimed as she stood up. Amy and Rory woke up too, the latter coming up the stairs from below and the former approaching the console from near the door, frowning and rubbing her flat stomach.

"Oh, thank _god, _I had a terrible nightmare about you two!" The Doctor shouted at the two humans as he scrambled to his feet and braced himself against the console. "That was scary."

"Ow!" The Poet grabbed her head as the door to her TARDIS opened and hit her. Alistair poked his head out.

"You lot okay? I heard yelling." He asked, looking around. "Oh, sorry, Poet." He winced.

"Yes, everything's fine." The Poet fell back against the door, locking the redhead in.

"Poet, let me out! What's going on?" Alistair knocked on the door.

"You hit me with my own TARDIS and made me cross; you can stay in there for now." She snapped and walked up to the Doctor's console.

"Blimey, never dropped off like that before." The Doctor exclaimed, hugging Amy in relief and jumping back up to his console. "Well, never, really. I'm getting on a bit, you see. Don't let the cool air fool you. Now, what's wrong with the console?"

"Flashing red lights." The Poet pointed at the little lights. "They have to mean something."

"Guys, I had sort of a weird dream thing." Rory said as the Doctor ducked to check underneath the console.

"Yeah, me, too." Amy said. The Poet looked up from frowning at the red lights.

"Not a nightmare, though." Rory said quickly. "Just . . . we were married."

"Yeah, in a little village." Amy replied curiously. The Doctor popped up and looked at the humans, exchanging a quick glance with the Poet.

"Yeah, a sweet little village. And you were pregnant."

"Yes, I was huge! I was a boat."

"So you had the same dream, then?" Rory asked, now frowning as much as the Time Lords, who were edging over to the humans. "_Exactly _the same dream?"

"Are you calling me a boat?" Amy threatened, and the Poet moved between her and Rory a little bit.

"Doctor, you and the Poet were visiting." Rory said, turning to them. "Travelling together, you were married or something." The Poet and Doctor exchanged an awkward look and avoided each other's' gazes.

"Yeah, you were visiting our cottage together." Amy said.

"How can we have had exactly the same dream?" Rory asked, looking at them for an answer that they didn't have. "It doesn't make any sense."

"And you had a nightmare about us." Amy said suspiciously, turning to the Doctor. "What happened to us in the nightmare?"

"It was similar in some aspects." The Doctor answered quickly.

"Which aspects?"

"Well, all of them."

"You had the same dream." Amy stated, leaning in dangerously.

"Basically."

"You said it was a nightmare." Rory said, thinking for a moment.

"Did I say nightmare? No, more of a really good . . . mare." The Poet rolled her eyes at his answer. "Look, it doesn't matter. We all had some sort of psychic episode. We probably just jumped a time track or something. Forget it! We're back to reality now." He turned away, but the Poet grabbed his shoulder.

"If this is reality, why is there still bird song?" She muttered, looking around. "The same birds from the—"

-o-

"—dream." The Poet gasped and opened her eyes as the Doctor jerked awake as well and pulled her head off his shoulder. She quickly made sure her bowler was still on her head. "Whoa."

"Oh, god, I must be really overdoing it." Rory groaned as he sat up. "I was dreaming we were back on the TARDIS." The Poet hopped off the Doctor's lap and he jumped up, walking around a few steps. He picked a pebble off the ground and closely inspected it.

"Doctor, Poet, _what _is going on?" Amy asked. "Is this because of you guys? Is this some Time Lordy thing that's happening because you've shown up again?"

"Listen to me, from now on, trust nothing." The Doctor said firmly, turning a slow circle to inspect the houses around them. "Trust nothing you see, hear, or feel."

"But we're awake now!" Rory protested.

"Yeah, and you thought you were awake in the TARDIS, too." The Doctor retorted.

"But we're home!" Amy said as they walked down the street a little ways.

"Yeah, you're home and you're dreaming. Trouble is, Rory, Amy, Poet, which is which? Are we flashing forwards or backwards? Hold on tight. This is going to be a tricky one."

-o-

They gasped awake on the TARDIS. Amy had sat in the chair near the console, Rory against the banister and the two Time Lords sitting on the stairs. The Doctor pushed himself up and fell against the console, trying to pull on a lever nearby.

"I don't like this!" He cried as the Poet jumped up after him, running around to the other side, trying to move the frozen controls. "This is bad!" The Doctor kicked the console in frustration, making a bell ring, and yelled out, holding his foot. "Ow! Never use force, you just embarrass yourself. Unless you're cross, in which case, always use force."

"I'll get the manual." The Poet declared as the Doctor hopped down the stairs to inspect the wiring below deck.

"I threw it into a supernova." The Doctor called up.

"Why on _earth _would you throw your manual into a supernova, you silly Time Lord?" The Poet yelled down as she continued to try and start up the TARDIS.

"I disagreed with it! Stop talking to me when I'm cross, okay?" He pointed at her through the glass flooring. An idea struck the Poet, and she ran over to her own TARDIS and banged her fist on the door. She tried opening it, but it was locked even to her.

"Alistair!" She called through the wood. "Open the door, ging!" She waited for a moment and stepped back as the door opened.

"Oh, decided to forgive me now?" He asked sarcastically. The Poet pushed past him and yanked at the levers to her own TARDIS, which was also stuck. "What's wrong?"

"Alistair, go into the Doctor's TARDIS right now while I try and figure this out." She made a shooing motion with her hand. "Go on. I'll be right along."

"No, I think I'll stay here." Alistair leaned against the console and crossed his arms stubbornly. The Poet shook her head at him, then stopped mid-shake to think.

"Yeah, you stay here." She said thoughtfully and dashed to the door. "Just stay here, and stay calm." She stepped out, and then poked her head back in. "And, don't follow me. It might mess things up. Be with you soon."

"Okay, we're in a spaceship that's bigger on the inside than the outside." The Poet caught Rory's statement as she hopped back up onto the console.

"With a bowtie-wearing idiot." Amy added snarkily. The Doctor gave her a look.

"So maybe 'what rings true' isn't so simple." Rory concluded.

"A good point." They looked around as the lights in the TARDIS went off, accompanied by the sound of the entire machine powering down. They were plunged into very sudden, very consuming darkness, the lobby lit only by a faint green light left lingering in the console. The familiar sounds of the TARDIS running were gone, leaving the four in eerie silence.

"It's dead." The Doctor breathed. "We're in a dead time machine." His whispered statement was followed by the loud, bright, completely inappropriate sound of birds singing. Rory and Amy quickly went to hold each other. "Remember, this is real. But when we wake up in the other place, remember how real this feels."

"But it is real." Amy insisted. "I know it's real."

"You can't for certain." The Poet muttered under the birds' song.

-o-

The Time Lady looked after a line of children following their schoolteacher, like ducklings following their mother. The Doctor was whistling a random tune, looking around as Amy and Rory woke up on a nearby bench.

"Okay, this is the real one." Amy said, looking down at her huge belly and giving it a gentle rub. "Definitely this one. It's all solid." Rory reached over to touch the bump and got his hand slapped away.

"It felt solid in the TARDIS, too." The Doctor said. "You can't spot a dream while you're having it." He waved his hand in front of his face, wiggling his fingers. The Poet took off her bowler and fanned it through the air.

"Ah, what are you doing?" Rory asked them.

"Looking for motion blur, pixilation." The Doctor answered. "It could be a computer simulation." He reached over and pinched Rory's cheeks. "Don't think so, though."

An old woman shuffled past the group and smiled at them. "Hello, doctor." She greeted happily, which the Doctor and Rory both replied to, and then looked at each other with equal confusion.

"You're a doctor?" The Doctor asked.

"Yeah." Rory answered as though it were obvious. "And unlike you, I've actually passed some exams."

"A doctor, not a nurse. Just like you've always dreamed." The Time Lord pushed past the other three and began walking purposefully down the lane. It had begun to rain, light drops sprinkling down on them. "How interesting."

"What is?"

"Well, your dream wife, your dream job, probably your dream baby. Maybe this is your dream." He stopped after a couple dozen strides and turned to look at them.

"Well, it's Amy's dream, too. Isn't it, Amy?" Rory asked, almost as if asking her to agree rather than offer a second opinion.

"Yes, of course it is." The soon-to-be mother answered a little too quickly and her laugh was a little too nervous.

The Doctor raised a barely-visible eyebrow at her and jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the line of brick buildings behind them. "What's that?"

"Old people's home." Amy said, as though it were obvious. The Doctor spun around to look closely at it. Several elderly citizens were looking out through the windows at them over the immaculately trimmed shrubbery.

"You said everyone here lives to their nineties." The Doctor said, watching the old folks thoughtfully, frowning. "There's something that doesn't make sense. Let's go and poke it with a stick." The Poet dashed forward to the building, followed by the Doctor, followed by a sighing Rory, followed by an annoyed, pregnant Amy. They entered the home and walked into a parlour, where the old people were sitting around. The walls were a light pink, with typical framed, pressed flowers hanging above rocking chairs and a dresser holding fine china.

Several of the residents warmly greeted Rory once they saw him enter after the two Time Lords, their bored expressions changing to wrinkled smiles. "Hello, Rory, love." An old woman said happily from an armchair, where she was knitting a positively hideous jumper.

"Hello, Mrs Poggit, how's your hip?" Rory asked nicely, kneeling down next to her.

"A bit stiff." Mrs Poggit answered.

"Oh, easy, D96 compound, plus—" The Doctor stopped mid-diagnosis. "No, you don't have that yet, forget that."

"Who's your friend?" The woman replied, grinning to show off large teeth. "A junior doctor?" The Poet had to turn away to hide a small, quiet snort of laughter.

After a moment of thought, and looking at the approaching Doctor, Rory replied, "Yes."

"Can I borrow you?" Mrs Poggit asked the Doctor, beckoning him over with a thin finger as she took the ugly jumper from the knitting needles. "You're about the size of my grandson."

"Ah, slightly keen to move on." The Doctor said, though obediently knelt down as the old woman put the jumper on him. "Freak psychic schism disorder." He slapped his hands down on the arms of the chair and leaned close to Mrs Poggit, who gave him a guarded look as she leaned back. "You're incredibly old, aren't you?"

At his words, the other residents in the room turned to look at him in suspicion. The Poet looked around at them and walked over to the Time Lord. "Doctor . . ." She started to warn, but stopped when the sound of birds tweeting was broadcast through the room. She stumbled and sat down, followed by Rory. Amy carefully steered herself to the floor so as not to fall down whilst—possibly—pregnant, and the Doctor, already kneeling, simply laid on his side.

-o-

"Okay, I hate this, Doctor." Amy said, standing up as said Time Lord pulled himself off his console. "Stop it. Because this is definitely real. It's definitely this one. I keep sayin' that, don't I?"

"We can't do anything about it, Amy." The Poet said as she buttoned her jacket. It was getting cold. "If we could, we'd stop it."

"It's bloody cold!" Rory exclaimed, shivering.

"The heating's off!" The Doctor called from the balcony above them.

"The heating's off." Rory repeated sarcastically.

"Yeah. Put on a jumper. That's what I always do."

"It's a good thing this is a wardrobe most of the time." The Poet called as she threw open the doors to her TARDIS and pulled out a few thick, furry coats and tossed them at the humans. She put a black one on herself and took out a couple extra.

"Yeah, sorry about Mrs Poggit." Rory said apologetically to the Doctor as he gratefully pulled his coat on. "She's so lovely, though."

"I wouldn't believe her nice old lady act if I were you." The Doctor peered through a window in the balcony wall at them, his tone now serious and quiet.

"What do you mean, 'act'?" Amy asked, but the Doctor had moved on.

"Everything's off." He informed the three, standing. "Sensors' core power; we're drifting." He started walking back toward them, coming down the stairs. "The scanner's down, so we can't even see out. We could be anywhere. Someone—some_thing_ is overriding my controls!"

"Well, that took a while."

The Time Lords and humans alike started and twisted to look at the top of the stairs the aggravated Doctor had just come down. At the top was a short, smiling man. He was slightly older and wore a similar outfit as the Doctor, with a bowtie and dark tweed jacket. He threw his hands out a little bit and started casually walking down the steps to them. He was laughing, drily and exasperatedly.

"Honestly, I'd heard such good things." He continued, getting closer. "The last of the Time Lords. Well, almost last." He added with a smirk at the Poet. "The Oncoming Storm. Him and the bowtie." He chuckled.

"How did you get into my TARDIS?" The Doctor muttered as the man reached him and brushed past. "What are you?"

"What should we call me?" The man asked lightly and turned around to face them. "Well, if you're Time Lords, let's call me the Dream Lord."

"Nice look." The Doctor commented.

"This?" The Dream Lord looked down at himself. "No, I'm not convinced. Bowties?" The Doctor, not taking his eyes off of the Dream Lord, reached into his jacket and tossed a rubber ball at him. It passed harmlessly through and rebounded against the back wall.

"Interesting." The Doctor breathed.

"I'd love to be impressed, but—Dream Lord. It's in the name, isn't it? Spooky. Not quite there." He was suddenly behind them, and the four whirled around. "Yet very much here."

"I'll do the talking, thank you." The Doctor said quietly. "Amy, would you like to take a guess at what _that _is?" He asked.

"Um, Dream Lord. He creates dreams." The woman answered.

"Dreams, delusions, cheap tricks." The Doctor said with clear disdain.

"What about the gooseberry here?" The Dream Lord gestured to Rory. "Does he get a guess?"

"Listen, mate, if anybody's the gooseberry around here, it's the Doctor." Rory replied defensively.

"Well, that's one delusion I'm not responsible for." The Dream Lord smiled tightly.

"Uh, yes, he is." Rory said. "Isn't he, Amy?"

"Oh Amy." The Dream Lord gave the ginger a look. "You have to sort your men out. Choose, even."

"I have chosen. Of course I've chosen." Amy said quickly. There was a pause. Amy reached back without looked and smacked Rory. "It's you, stupid."

"Oh, good, thanks." He said, not bothered to hide his relief.

"You can't fool me." The Dream Lord said from behind them, again. "I've seen your dreams. Some of them twice, Amy. Blimey, I'd blush if I had a blood supply or a real face."

"Where did you pick up this cabaret act?" The Doctor asked threateningly.

"Me? Oh, you're on shaky ground."

"Am I?"

"If you had any more tawdry quirks, you could open up a tawdry quirk shop." The Dream Lord sneered. "The madcap vehicle. The cockamamie hair. The clothes designed by a first-year fashion student. I'm surprised you haven't got a little purple space dog just to ram home what an intergalactic wag you are." He paused. "Where was I?"

"Um, you were—" Rory started.

"I _know_ where I was." The Poet jumped and stepped away from the Dream Lord, who had appeared behind her. He smiled that tight, mocking smile again. "Well, now, what about you?" He asked sneeringly. "You must be so proud of yourself, so happy, that you finally found that missing piece." His tone had been irritated with the Doctor, but he was now clearly aggravated—almost angry. "You really must care about him. I mean, you leave him on his own, thinking he was alone, for what, just a few hundred measly years of crippling guilt? And then you just waltz in here like nothing ever happened. The perfect romance. _Poetic._"

The Poet inclined her head by the tiniest degree, but otherwise showed no reaction. The Dream Lord grinned and disappeared again to reappear at the balcony. The Poet looked at the Doctor, but he was avoiding her gaze and instead turned to watch the Dream Lord.

"So here's your challenge." The apparition said. "Two worlds. Here, in the time machine, and there—in the village that time forgot. One is real, the other's fake. And just to make it more interesting, you're to face in both worlds a deadly danger, but only one of the dangers is real. Tweet tweet, time to sleep."

As the four below tottered around, trying to stay up, the Dream Lord said, "Oh. Or are you waking up?"

-o-

"This is bad, this is very, very bad."

The two humans and two Time Lords gasped awake on the pink rug of the old people's home, jumping to their feet as a suited Dream Lord walked into the room. The five were the only ones in there, now, as the elderly residents were all gone.

"Look at this x-ray." The Dream Lord pointed to the sheet he was holding and adjusting the small glasses balanced on the tip of his nose. "Your brain is completely see-through. But then, I've always been able to see through you, Doctor."

"Always." Amy stepped in front of him. "What do you mean, always?"

"Now then, the prognosis is this." The Dream Lord ignored her question. The Doctor lowered himself into the chair previously inhabited by Mrs Poggit, still wearing the ugly jumper. "If you die in the dream, you wake up in reality, healthy recovery in next to no time. Ask me what happens if you die in reality."

"What happens?" Rory asked.

"You die, stupid." The Dream Lord snapped. "That's why it's called 'reality'."

"How do you know the Doctor?" Amy inquired, her voice rising a tiny bit. "Have you met him before? Do you know him? Doctor, does he?"

"Now, don't get jealous. He's been around our boy." The Dream Lord replied, looking intently at the x-ray he was holding. "Never mind that, you've got a world to choose. One reality always was too much for you, Doctor. Take two, and call me in the morning." He vanished.

After a pause, where the Doctor stared coldly at the spot the Dream Lord had just been, Rory loudly stated, "Okay, I don't like him."

"Who is he?" Amy crossed her arms.

"I don't know." The Doctor replied, looking up at them. "It's a big universe."

"Why is he doing this?" Amy said hotly.

"Maybe because he has no physical form. That gets you down after a while." The Doctor spread his arms out. "So, he's taking it out on folks like us." The Doctor looked down at himself and seemed to notice that he was still wearing the unfinished jumper, one sleeve non-existent. "Who can touch and eat and feel." He tore the jumper off and tossed it off to the side. The Poet caught it and threw it into a chair.

"What does he mean, deadly danger, though?" Rory asked them, looking between the Poet and Doctor, both of whom were now paying attention to the empty chairs in the pink parlour. "Nothing deadly has ever happened here. I mean, a bit of natural wastage, obviously."

"They've all gone." The Doctor said suspiciously.

"They've all gone . . ." The Poet echoed quietly. They exchanged a short glance before bolting out the door of the parlour. After making a few turns they popped out in a courtyard that doubled as a playground—one that was occupied by a little over a dozen children. The sky was no longer clear, but now overcast, drenching the scene a light grey.

"Why would they leave?" Rory asked as he followed them out a moment later.

"And what did you mean about Mrs Poggit's nice old lady act?" Amy waddled out after them, trying to keep up.

The Doctor spun around to face the two, and the Poet stopped walking and doubled back. "One of my tawdry quirks—sniffing out things that aren't what they seem. So come on, let's think. The mechanics of this reality split we're stuck in. Time asleep exactly matches time in our dream world. Unlike in conventional dreams." He turned and started walking briskly again.

"And we're all dreaming the same dream at the same time." Rory confirmed.

"Yes, sort of communal trace—very rare, very complicated." The Doctor walked back to them, now pacing. "I'm sure there's some sort of dream giveaway tell, but my mind isn't working because this village is _so dull_!" The last two words he shouted up at the sky. "I'm slowing down like you two have."

"Ooh! Ow," Amy sucked in a breath and clutched her belly. The other three were instantly looking at her. "Really?" The redhead cried out, bent over slightly. "It's coming!" She cried. Rory was panicking almost more than his screaming wife, flailing his arms a bit as though unsure of what to do. Neither Time Lord was in much better condition.

"Okay, you're a doctor, help her!" The Doctor said to Rory.

"You're a doctor!" He replied.

"You're both doctors, do something!" The Poet snapped.

"It's okay, we're doctors." The Doctor told Amy. "What do we do?" He put his hands between her knees like the baby was just going to drop out.

The Poet slapped his hands away. "That's not how it works!"

"Okay, it's not coming." Amy said, immediately stopping her ooh-ing and gasping. The other three looked at each other, confused.

"What?" The Doctor asked.

"This is my life now and it just turned you _white as a sheet, _so don't you call it dull again. Ever. Okay?" Amy narrowed her eyes as she peered threateningly at the Doctor.

"Sorry." The Time Lord said after a pause. The still pregnant Amy brushed past him and stalked off. Rory gave him a little nod and quickly went after her. The Poet smiled weakly at him and gave a little shrug before following the humans. The Doctor caught up to them, jogging to do so. They walked along the path, around the equipment and stopped at the swings. The Poet and Amy plopped themselves down on the swings, the Doctor and Rory standing behind them, respectively.

"So, we all know there's an elephant in the room." The Doctor said as he gave the Time Lady in front of him a little push.

"I have to be this size; I'm having a baby." Amy said defensively.

"No, no, the woman seemed a little bit—no." The Doctor seemed to think better of voicing that particular train of thought out loud and instead hit on another subject. "Is nobody going to mention Rory's ponytail?"

"I personally think that's the most shocking part of this entire scenario." The Poet agreed casually as she swung back, a hand on her bowler. There was a short pause, in which Rory turned to the Doctor and crossed his arms.

". . . You hold him down, I'll cut it off?" The Doctor suggested to no one in particular. The women on the swings laughed.

"This from the man in the bowtie?" Rory asked grumpily.

"Bowties are cool." The Doctor replied. Something caught his attention and he walked between Amy and the Poet to watch a figure standing on the top of a set of steps, at the edge of a schoolyard in the shadow of a crumbling tower. The sound of children playing could be heard from the partially-walled field. "I don't know about you, but I wouldn't hire Mrs Poggit as a babysitter." The Doctor suggested lowly to Amy as she, Rory and the Poet stood to join him.

As rain began to drizzle down on them, Mrs Poggit turned to stare at the four below. "What is she doing?" The Doctor wondered quietly. "What does she want?" He and the others looked up and around as the sound of birds singing penetrated the quiet playground.

"Oh, no." Amy said, breath already coming quick as she tried to keep her eyes open. "Here we go."


	7. Unfinished Business

_AGH! I'm so sorry about the delay! My computer has been out of my reach for some time now, so I haven't been able to write! I'm super sorry, feel free to toss me in a room of Weeping Angels and turn out the lights._

_ANNND, and and and, I've put some thought into it, and decided who would play the Poet and Alistair. The Poet would be Emily Blunt, with shorter hair of course, and Alistair would be Rupert Grint. I've decided. Just to give you guys a visual. Now, onto more pointless imagining! :D_

_W'P_

"It's really cold." Amy said to the Poet as they woke up in the Doctor's TARDIS. "You got any more warm clothes?"

"What does it _matter _if we're cold?" The Doctor snapped, turning to them. "We have to figure out what she's up to!" He looked at the almost hurt expressions of his companions and ran his hands over his face, sighing. "Sorry, sorry. There should be some stuff . . ." He gestured vaguely. "Over there. Have a look."

The Poet quietly ushered the two humans over to her wardrobe and began tossing them the remaining coats and jumpers and scarves that were hanging there. She poked her head into the TARDIS and saw Alistair moodily reclining in a chair next to her console. "All right, Donovan?" She asked.

"Brilliant." The ginger replied sarcastically, tugging his coat closer to him. "It's freezing in here."

"Stay here."

"Where else would I go?" The Poet smiled and closed the door. She wrapped a dark scarf around her neck and walked up to the Doctor. He had a white cup in his hand and before the Poet could ask why, he jumped down below the console. The Poet looked over the railing, her fingers melting the thin frost that had accumulated there. The Time Lord below her ducked around the hanging wires and began messing around with a box.

The Poet sat and closed her eyes, listening to the Doctor tinker around with the tools in the box. Neither really needed to speak. Telepathy was communication enough, for things that needed not be said. Several minutes passed in silence, while emotions and words passed between the two without a single noise being made. Emotions passed from one to the other like scents that accompanied words, as moods accompanied vague dreams. Soft forgiveness, sadness, regret, slight traces of betrayal, and finally gentle happiness. Once the Doctor finished building his hand-held generator, the Poet stood up. The Time Lords exchanged a short, long glance before heading back up to Amy and Rory.

The Poet grinned and blew a fog out of her mouth in little puffs. She stumbled back and laughed as a folded blanket hit her face. Scottish giggling could be heard as well, and she pulled the blanket away to give Amy and a grinning Rory both chastising looks. She held up the blanket. "Thanks."

"Found a whole bunch of 'em in a big box over there." Amy said as Rory put a bluish blanket around her shoulders. "Thought you might want one too. Or are Time Lords warmer than us?"

"Colder." The Poet said as the Doctor handed Rory the whisk-generator. "We hover around fifteen degrees." At Amy's surprised look, she added, "We also have two hearts and thirteen lives, so keep that in mind. We just look human. Wait, no. You look Time Lord."

"Anyway!" The Doctor clapped his hands together and gave the Time Lady a pointed, slightly amused look. "Moving on. Rory, wind. Poet, could you attach this to the monitor, please?"

"I was promised amazing worlds." Rory complained as he began winding the whisk. "Instead I get duct central heating and a weird kitcheny wind-up device." He gave the thing in his hand a look bordering on disgust.

"It's a generator. Get winding." The Doctor ordered as he dashed around the console in circles.

"Not enough." Amy said as she watched the Poet finish hooking the kitchen generator to the monitor.

"Wind!" The Doctor said loudly.

"Why is the Dream Lord picking on you?" Rory asked as he quickly started winding again.

"Why us?" They turned their attention to the monitor as it buzzed and flicked on. Beyond, the vacuum of space lay. The darkness was cut by the scrape of a bluish-green nebula. They looked at the monitor for a few seconds in silence.

"Where are we?" Amy whispered.

"We're in trouble." The Doctor responded, not taking his worried eyes from the monitor.

"_What_ is that?" Rory asked, pointing at the newest point of interest. It was a great globe, giving off little curling arms of white frost far in the distance. It was glowing a light, chill blue.

"A star?" The Doctor looked to the Poet as she did the same. "A cold star?" He sprinted down to the door and threw it open. A wall of blinding white light illuminated the inside of the TARDIS, making them all shield their eyes. "That's why we're freezing!" The Doctor yelled back to them. "It's not a heating malfunction; we're drifting toward a cold sun. There's our deadly danger for this version of reality."

"So this must be the dream, there's no such thing as a cold star. Stars burn." Amy said, though she sounded unsure.

"So this one's burning cold." The Doctor dashed back and forth from the monitor and the door, thinking hard and running his hands through his hair in aggravation.

"Is that possible?" Rory asked, rubbing his hands up and down his arms to stay warm.

"I can't know everything!" The Doctor snapped as he dashed up to the console and pointed at Rory. "Why does everyone expect me to always . . ."

"Poet, have you seen this before?" Amy asked, teeth chattering a little bit.

"Nope. No, not a cold star." The Time Lady was pacing in circles around the console to keep herself a little warmer. "Looks nice, though. If it weren't about to kill us."

"Okay, this is something neither of you have seen before. So, does that mean this is the dream?" Rory asked them.

"I _don't know._" The Doctor put emphasis on each word, holding out his hands. "But there it is." He checked his watch. "And I'd say we've got about fourteen minutes until we crash into it. But _that's _not a problem." He jumped up from his chair and put a stethoscope in his ears.

"Because you know how to get us out of this, right?" Rory asked hopefully.

"Nope, because we'll have frozen to death by then." The Time Lord began poking and prodding at the console with the help of the Poet.

"Oh, you have to get us out of here." Amy shivered. "What do we do?"

"Stay calm." The Doctor said. He and the Poet simultaneously tossed each other little gadgets, catching them in synch. "Don't get sucked into it, because this just might be the battle we have to lose."

"Oh, this is so_ you,_ isn't it?" Rory sneered.

"What?"

"Drifting toward a cold star, fourteen minutes left to live, only one—two—people to save the day, huh?" He briefly corrected himself as his accusing eyes flicked over to the Poet. "I just wanted a nice village and a family."

"Oh, dear, Time Lords. Dissent in the ranks." The Doctor started as the Dream Lord appeared, smirking, behind him. "There was an old Doctor from Gallifrey, who ended up throwing his life away. He let down his friends, and—" The short man stopped as the sound of birds singing sounded throughout the TARDIS. "Oh, no. We've run out of time. Don't spend too long in there, or you'll, um . . . catch your death here."

-o-

"I'm up!" The Poet yelped and sat straight up, bowler shifting forward over her face. There was a groan from her right and some scuffling noises. The Time Lady pushed her hat back and scrambled to her feet, looking around in mild confusion. She had not rejoined the Doctor and the others in the park. She threw back her head to look at the parlour above them through the clear floor, took in the familiar colour scheme.

"I'm in my TARDIS." The Poet began pulling at the controls of the console as Alistair dragged himself over to her. "Oh, good, you're possibly awake. Almost definitely not."

"Wait, what?" The ginger looked around. "Where did my coat go? And what do you mean 'possibly' awake?"

"Ugh!" Slapping her hand a few times in vain on a button, the Poet took a few deep breaths. "Oh, nothing. Only that we may possibly die and are almost certainly dreaming or perhaps not. Actually!" She bounded past him and pushed through the coats to the door. The second her hand touched the handle, she pulled away as though burned. "Not normal." Opening the door, she yelled out and quickly slammed it closed again.

"What, what was out there?" Alistair called over, a little annoyed that, as usual, she was carrying out her plans without telling him anything.

"Space." The Poet breathed, thinking hard. "Space!"

"Space?"

"Yes, space." The Poet jumped back to the console and began pacing. "That's not normal. We're in space now, because we're dreaming. But why are we back here, why just you and me? Why isn't there any danger?" She turned to Alistair, whose expression was a mixture between concerned and fearful. "I know what's happening."

"Really, what's happening? Because _I _think it would be just _great_ to actually know for once!" Alistair snapped as the Poet ran around to the display and tried to turn it on.

"Can't be sure yet, I have to . . . oh, no picture." She ran a pale hand down her face and rolled her eyes to look up at the dark ceiling in exasperation. "Alistair, just don't open the door any more, do you hear? Very important that you don't."

"Why?"

The Poet sat down on the floor with a yawn. "Well, if my assumptions are correct, and as you know they usually are," Alistair shot her a look, which she ignored. "The reason we all keep, um," She yawned again. "Falling asleep is because the Dream Lord—"

"Who's the Dream Lord?" Alistair cut in.

"Don't interrupt, Donovan." The Poet yawned a final time before promptly passing out.

-o-

The Poet woke up to being rather violently jostled back and forth. She sat up quickly, and realised a second too late that the Doctor had been carrying her and tumbled down to the pavement. She clawed for her hat, found that it had been left behind, and kept running alongside the Doctor.

"Oh, lovely, you're up." He gasped. "I was about to drop you."

"You did. Why are running?" The Poet looked over her shoulder at a crowd of elderly citizens shuffling along behind them. "Oh." They kept going, the Doctor clearly struggling to stay awake, and came across a row of little shops. The pair turned into the first the Doctor almost ran into, and the Poet locked the door behind them. The Doctor flipped the sign over to read 'Sorry, we are Closed!"

"Love a good butcher's." The Dream Lord said loftily from behind the counter. "We really have to use these places, or they'll shut down. But you're probably a _vegetarian, _aren't you? You big flop-haired wuss."

"Oh, pipe down, I'm busy." The Doctor said over his shoulder as he tried getting out the back door.

"Maybe you need a little sleep." Birds began singing at the Dream Lord's "suggestion", and the Doctor slumped down to the floor. The Poet pulled out her sonic and began trying to open the door as well, but stopped in favour of pulling the Doctor to his feet. She had gotten her so-called "rest" already, but it hadn't been long and drowsiness was starting to set in.

"Wait a moment." The Dream Lord leaned over the counter. "If you fall asleep here, several dozen angry pensioners will destroy you with their horrible pie thingies." He had to call back to them as the pair stumbled back down a hall. The Doctor collapsed again halfway down, and the Poet had to drag him to what seemed like a broom closet. The Dream Lord was calling out to the old people coming through the door.

"Wait, stop!" She cried out to them, now starting to wobble. Her eyelids drooped as she soniced open the door. The Doctor was on his feet, but only stayed there long enough to fall inside. The Poet locked the closet behind them as the Time Lord fell asleep completely. The Poet stayed up only a few seconds longer before dropping off as well.

-o-

"Ooh, it's colder." Amy shivered, holding her blanket and coat closer to her.

"We have to agree, now, which is the dream." The Doctor said, buttoning his jacket up as they all four sat up in a circle.

"It's this." Rory insisted.

"No—" The Poet started, but was cut off by Amy.

"You could be right. The science is all wrong here. Burning ice."

"No, no, no, ice can burn, sofas can read. It's a big universe. We have to agree which battle to lose, all of us, now." The Doctor insisted.

"Okay, which one do you think is real?" Amy asked.

"This one."

"No, the other one!" Rory protested.

"Yeah, but are we disagreeing or competing?" The Doctor snapped back, his coat pulled up to his chin.

"Competing? Over what?" The Doctor, Rory and the Poet all turned to look at her. She looked at them for a moment before making an annoyed sound and standing up.

The Doctor checked his watch. "Nine minutes 'til impact." They jumped up to their feet and began moving around more to stay warm. The Poet grabbed her head and was happy to discover she had kept her hat in this reality.

"What temperature is it?" Amy asked.

"Outside, brrrr." The Doctor made the noise in response. "Inside, how many naughts you got? I don't know, but I can't feel my feet and . . . other parts."

"All my parts are basically fine." Rory replied with just the slightest touch of a sneer.

"Stop competing." The Doctor responded. The Poet rolled her eyes at their conversation and hopped over to her TARDIS, reaching quickly inside to grab the remaining coats and bring them out to the others. One she gave to Amy, who passed it to Rory. The other she gave to the Doctor, who gave her a brief smile before throwing it on. Amy, too, had some contributions to make.

"Put these on, all of you." She tossed the others what looked like blankets, but turned out to have a large hole cut in to make room for the head.

"A poncho." Rory observed dryly. "The biggest crime against fashion since lederhosen."

"My boys." Amy said, moving to stand next to Rory. "My poncho boys, and girl, I suppose." She and the Poet smirked. "If we're going to die, let's die looking like a Peruvian folk band."

"We're not going to die." Rory said.

"No, we're not, but our time's running out." The Doctor said suddenly, and began pacing. "If we fall asleep here, we're in trouble. If we could divide up, then we'd have an active presence in each world, but the Dream Lord is switching us between the worlds. Why? Why? What's the logic?"

"Excellent thought, veggie." The Dream Lord was suddenly pacing beside the Doctor. "Let's divide you four up so I can have a little chat with our lovely companion. Maybe I'll keep her, and you can have pointy-nose and fashion-blind to yourself for all eternity, should you manage to clamber aboard some sort of reality."

"Can you hear that?" Rory asked, looking around. The Poet could hear it, too, and evidently, so could the Doctor—birds singing.

"What? No." Amy said.

"Amy, don't be scared." The Doctor reassured her as best he could while dozing off. The Poet had already sat herself down. "We'll be back."

"Rory. Doctor, Poet, don't leave me." Amy pleaded. But all three were already slumped over, fast asleep.

-o-

The Poet and Doctor woke up with their heads tilted practically on each other's shoulders. After taking a half second to register where they were, the Time Lord and Lady quickly scrambled to their feet. The Poet briefly mourned the loss of her hat while the Doctor pressed his ear to the door, listening. There was a faint but discernable screeching sound coming from the other side, presumably the frustration of the things unable to get into the closet.

"Okay." The Doctor muttered to himself as the Poet joined him near the door. He tested out a couple different frequencies on his sonic. He nodded to the Poet, who pulled out her own sonic. On an unspoken count, there was a quick dot of blue and the door flew open. The Doctor blew out the lamp in the hall, giving the two just enough of an advantage that they could push through the crowd, out of the butcher's and into the street.

Not a few seconds later, someone began to cry for help down the road. "Oh, you couldn't live near the shops, could you?" The Doctor cried and began to tear down the street. The Poet, meanwhile, only made it about half way down before stumbling. There it was again, the birdsong.

"Come on!" The Doctor called back. He quickly realised what was going on and came running back. The Poet tried to wave him on, because trying to carry her deadweight was only going to slow him down, but the motion ended up being just a useless flopping of her hand.

"Sorry." She muttered before falling asleep completely.

-o-

"Oh, thank god you're back." Alistair sighed in visible relief as the Poet jumped up to her feet. She dashed around to the display and frowned when it still showed nothing. It was then that it struck her that it was very, very cold in her TARDIS. There were layers of frost and even thin snow on every surface, and the human present had his teeth chattering together loudly. The Poet whirled around on her heel to face Alistair, who was hanging back, sensing a storm.

"When did it get so cold?" The Time Lady asked. Her breath made clouds of fog as she spoke. "Have you been awake?"

"Yeah, it got really cold, really fast." Alistair shivered. "And now my coat's gone." The Poet looked to the door, but the garments there were gone, as well.

"Oh." She made a face. "They're with Amy."

"Very astute of you." The Dream Lord sneered. Alistair jumped violently and scampered to stand behind the Poet, who turned to face the apparition with her mouth set in a stern line. "Really, for one of the supposedly most intelligent races in the Universe, you're grasping this all a bit slowly."

"Am I really?" The Poet took an intimidating step forward. "I know who you are."

The Dream Lord cocked his head in a sarcastically curious manner. "Oh? Then please, do tell, because I'm really rather keen to move on with this conversation. Which reminds me," He snapped his fingers dramatically.

Alistair looked around, pupils dilated. "What's that? Birds?"

The Poet turned around. "Don't panic. Relax."

"Oh, yes, relax." The Dream Lord was now in front of them again. "Brilliant words of advice while he goes off to join our friend the Doctor. I wonder how he'll fare there?" He smiled tightly, meanly, at Alistair as the latter sank off into sleep. "Sweet dreams, ging."

"What do you want from me?" The Poet asked after positioning Alistair so he was curled on himself to conserve heat.

"I just want to talk." The Dream Lord didn't drop his smile.

"What could I possibly have to talk about with you?" The Time Lady moved to the stairs and was blocked as the Dream Lord appeared in front of her again.

"I thought you were awfully eager to talk with me. Not anymore?" The apparition put on a faux pout, which quickly dropped. "Well, if you don't want to talk, I suppose I can take care of that part myself. It's one of my favourite pastimes. Subject number one." He disappeared, and his voice next came from above. The Poet looked up to see him reclining in one of her parlour armchairs. "Where do you intend to go now that you've found another Time Lord?"

"Where ever I want to." The Poet countered icily. "Just like I always have. I don't have to explain myself to you."

"Don't you?" He appeared sitting on the railing a few metres from her. "Fine. Subject number two: did you really think this would all just smooth over now? There are going to be consequences for finding him, you know."

"Okay, I have a question." The Poet, her expression now stormier than a hurricane, marched up to the Dream Lord. "How are you here? What's making us dream?"

"Ah, ah, ah." The man shook his head. "That was two." The sound of birds sang again. "Our time is up, though. I suggest you think things through this time."

-o-

The Poet woke with a gasp, jerking upright. She was suddenly quite a bit warmer now that she was no longer in her freezing TARDIS. She looked out the window of what she saw was a van. The Doctor was sitting next to her in the driver's, his foot pressed down on he gas as the vehicle sped down the country roads.

Upon seeing she was awake, the Time Lord reached over and gave her shoulder a quick pat. "Good, you're back with us."

"Where are Amy and Rory?" The Poet looked into the empty back seat. Alistair waved weakly at her, looking very confused and panicked.

"They should be here presently."

"They're at the cottage and that's where we're going."

"Yes, absolutely."

"Great." The Poet reached up to hold onto her hat and remembered it was gone in this reality as they came to a quick halt outside the cottage. A crowd of more elderly were trying to smash their way in, through windows and the front door alike using whatever gardening tools, walkers and rubbish they could get their hands on.

"Okay." The Doctor muttered after a moment of observation. He nodded at the Poet, and they both jumped out at the same time.

"I'll just wait here, then!" Alistair's voice cracked wildly as he called after them, quickly quieted as the doors slammed shut. The two ran forward, shoving old folks aside as they barreled toward the area just below the upper window.

"Okay, uh, you first." The Poet made a foothold with her hand and bent at the knees a little. The Doctor stepped up, and the woman pushed him up as much as she could. The Time Lord clambered onto the shingled window awning. He awkwardly pulled open the window above and fell inside. The Poet looked nervously around, but the Doctor was back at the window in a moment and leaned out dangerously far, arm extended. The Poet jumped up and grabbed him, almost pulling the Time Lord out the window.

"Gah!" He yelled, and looked over his shoulder. "Rory, pull!" They both were gradually pulled into the house and fell inside, gasping with adrenaline and exertion.

"Okay, I thought the freezing TARDIS was real but now, I'm not so sure." The Doctor huffed, running a hand through his hair.

"Oop." Amy yipped suddenly and held her belly. "I think baby's coming."

"Honestly?" Rory exclaimed, slightly more worried now.

"Why would I make it up at a time like this?" Amy cried.

"Well, you do have a history of being . . ." The soon-to-possibly-be-father stopped himself at a venomous look from his wife. "Very lovely."

"Okay, just calm down, Amy." The Poet said in an attempt to be comforting, but her own tone was stressed as well. "Relax. Don't stress yourself, breath." A statuette smashed through the window next to them, making Amy yell out. Rory stood to look out, only to find one of the Mrs Poggit on the other side. The Poet couldn't see exactly what happened from where she knelt next to Amy, but Rory stumbled back in pain, holding his sizzling side. The Doctor grabbed a spade and pushed the old woman from where she was perched, and she fell back down to earth.

"No, I-I'm not ready . . ." Rory stammered. His hands and feet began to fall into dark dust as the Time Lords looked on in helpless horror. He calmed down enough to look over at a crying Amy. "Look after our baby." He murmured, and he quickly dissolved away into a pile of dust on the rug.

Amy looked up at the two standing, rocking back a forth a little from her position on the floor. "Save him." She said quietly, directed to the Doctor. "You save everyone, you always do. It's what you do."

"Not always." The Doctor replied after a pause. "I'm sorry."

Amy was looking at him with a look almost akin to anger. She leaned forward, now looking at both of them, voice venomous, and snarled, "Then what is the point of you?" Her hand moved forward to paw at the dust for another second or so before she pulled herself to her feet, the Poet helping her stand.

"This is the dream." She said determinedly. "If we die here, we wake up, yea?"

The Doctor nodded a little. "Unless we just die." He whispered.

"Either way, this is my only chance of seeing him again." Amy said coldly. "This is the dream."

"How do you know?" The Poet added quietly.

"Because if this is real I don't _want it,_ I don't want it." She pushed past them and out the door of the nursery. The Time Lords exchanged a quick look and went after her. The Scot was already marching across the grass, fuming. None of the elderly were coming after them, now. "Why aren't they _attacking!" _She yelled out at no one in particular.

"Probably because this is the dream or they know," The Doctor glanced around behind them and made sure the Poet was keeping up, placing a hand on her shoulder. "What we're about to do." The three continued over to the van, where the Doctor and Amy stopped. The Poet stepped around them for a moment, spying some broken glass on the ground. Upon closer inspection, one of the back windows had been broken by a brick. Inside, on the back seat, was a large pile of dark gray dust.

"Oh, Donovan." The Poet sighed. She heard the engine start up, and climbed into the back next to her companion's remains. Amy revved the van a few times before slamming down on the gas. She spun the van to face the cottage and drove full-tilt, smashing through a wooden fence. As they neared the building, the Poet crunched her eyes shut and for a brief second wondered what her tenth body was going to look like, before they struck the wall.

-o-

The Poet slowly opened her eyes, a little fearful. There was no sound; just utter silence, consuming. For a moment, she contemplated the possibility that she was dead. But then, she realised where she was, and what she saw. Across from her, about a metre away, the Doctor opened his eyes. He had been practically camouflaged by the thick layer of icy frost and snow that lay across his entire self, from eyelashes to toes, and the Poet assumed she must look much the same. They smiled at each other for a short minute before a voice broke the silence.

"So. You chose this world." The Dream Lord was standing to the side, untouched by the snow. "Well done. You got it right." His voice sounded a bit sour, but through the window, the Poet could catch a glimpse of the ice star moving away. "With only seconds to spare. But fair's fair. Let's warm you up." The yellow lights of the TARDIS came on, and almost instantly it started feeling a bit warmer. "I hope you've enjoyed your little fictions. They all came out of your imaginations, so, I'll leave you to ponder on that."

"I have been defeated." The Dream Lord said, stepping over the Doctor to stand near the stairs. "I shall withdraw. Farewell." And just as quickly as he had appeared, the parody vanished.

The four, still lying on the floor, seemed to snap out of their reveries. The Doctor stood, snow shaking off of him, and helped the Poet to her feet. Their hands were together just the slightest fraction of a second longer than necessary as they bother hurried off to the console, knowing what to do. The Doctor began turning a handle, the TARDIS making an odd singing noise, as the Poet twisted a couple handles.

"What are you doing now?" Amy asked them, her voice a little quiet.

"Blowing up the TARDIS." The Poet grunted and released the handle to pull a lever down a notch.

"What?" Rory asked, absurdly loud, as the pair continued to prep the machine for its imminent death.

"Notice how helpful the Dream Lord was." The Doctor said as he passed the Poet on their laps around the console. "Okay, there was misinformation, red herrings, malice and I could have done without the limerick, but he was always very keen to make us choose between dream, and reality." After finishing up typing some commands in, he pulled another lever and the TARDIS jerked. He laughed, and the Poet chuckled along, as red lights began to flash.

"What are you doing?" Amy asked, almost yelled, as she and Rory grabbed onto the rail to steady themselves.

"This isn't the dream!" Rory called over the racket.

"Yes it is!" The Doctor yelled back. "Start burning cold, do me a favour. The Dream Lord has no power over the real world. He was offering us the choice between two dreams."

"How do you know?" Amy asked breathlessly.

"Because I know who he is." The Doctor replied. He twisted a lever, making a pointed ticking sound, and jabbed a button. The TARDIS was consumed in bright, white light, and then nothing.

-o-

The Poet spun her bowler around in her hands as she stepped out of her TARDIS, walking up to the console, where the Doctor stood observing something in the palm of his hand. "I'd like to apologise." She said as she leaned against the console next to him. The Doctor looked over at her in surprise.

"For what?" He asked.

"For being arrogant, and cruel, and most of all being a coward." The Doctor was fully listening now, having quit looking at the little crystals in his hand. "If I had stayed back on . . . on Gallifrey, then maybe I could have helped, all those years ago. I would be trapped there, too, but then maybe I wouldn't feel so guilty now about staying in hiding for so long."

"What's happened has happened." The Doctor said after a pause. "Besides, if you'd done that, you wouldn't be here with me, now. All is forgiven. No more apologies." He smiled, and the Poet smiled back as he threw his free arm around her shoulders. "And look, what a turn out. Adventures all over the place already!"

"Which reminds me, are those what I think they are?" The Poet asked, nodding at his hand. Before she could receive and answer, Amy and Rory came down from upstairs. Alistair poked his head out from the Poet's TARDIS and stepped out.

"Any questions?" The Doctor asked them.

"Umm . . ." Amy bounced down to the two and pointed at the little flaky crystals. "What's that?"

"A speck of psychic pollen from the Candle Meadows of Craston Slava, if I'm not terribly mistaken." The Poet answered.

"Absolutely correct. Must have been hanging around for ages." The Doctor poked the little pearls with his finger, and they clinked like bits of metal. "Fell in the time rotor, heated up, and produced a dream state for all of us." He jogged down to the door to let the pollen out.

"Wait, if it was in your TARDIS, why was I dreaming, too?" Alistair asked, frowning.

"Excellent question, Donovan." The Poet said. "My theory is, every time I went to go check on you, a bit of the heated pollen fumes got in and gave you a more mild version of what the rest of us experienced in full."

"So, that was the Dream Lord, then." The Doctor concluded as he dusted his hands off and came back to the console.

"Those little specks?" Rory asked.

"No, no, no." The Doctor stopped and looked at each of the perplexed humans in turn. "Sorry, wasn't it obvious? The Dream Lord was me. Psychic pollen, it's a mind parasite. Feeds on everything dark in you; gives it a voice, turns it against you." He paused for a moment, smiling a little dryly. "I'm nine hundred and seven. It's got a lot to go on."

"But why didn't it feed on us, too?" Amy asked. "Or the Poet, isn't she old, too?"

"For me, it was just chance it got to the Doctor first." The Poet added, leaning against the console with a little smirk. "His TARDIS, his pollen."

"The darkness in you pair? It would have starved in an instant." The Doctor answered the human couple loftily. "I choose my friends with great care. Otherwise, I'm stuck in my own company, and you know how that turns out."

"But those things he said about you." Amy asked, smiling and stepping closer. "You don't think any of that's true?"

The Doctor hesitated, smile gone for a moment, before answering. "Amy, right now a question is about to occur to Rory and seeing as the answer is about to change his life, I think you should give him your full attention." The Doctor gave the redhead a little push over to said person.

"Yeah. Actually, yeah." Rory agreed, mind catching up. "'Cause what I don't get it, you blew up the TARDIS, that stopped that dream, but what stopped the Leadworth dream?"

"We, ah." Amy cleared her throat. "We crashed the van into the cottage."

"Oh, right." Rory said. "I should remember that."

Alistair walked sidled over to the Poet, discreetly rolling his eyes. "I'm gonna head back to Narnia over there. Could you remind me where the kitchen is? I'm a bit famished after all that."

"Oh, right." The Poet said, as though suddenly remembering that food existed. "Ah, take the stairs up, across the parlour and use the right door, go down the spiral stairs and then from there take three lefts, straight and two rights." She gave the blinking Alistair a little thumbs-up before bouncing up past a kissing Amy and Rory to stand next to a grinning Doctor and applauded with him.

"So," The Time Lord said. "Well then. Where now?" There was no response from the couple. "Or, should I just pop down to the swimming pool for a few lengths?"

"I dunno." Rory said after a second. "Anywhere's good for me. I'm happy anywhere. It's up to Amy this time."

"Amy's choice." The Doctor clapped his hands together and spun around to pull a couple switches. The Poet noticed that he frowned down at the console for a moment, as though seeing something, but snapped out of a it a second later.

"Hey." The Time Lady leaned over to him and smirked. "I think a few lengths in the pool could do us all good." She jerked her head pointedly at the giggling human couple a few paces away. "Mind if I come with?"

The Doctor smiled and held out his elbow, which the Poet took, and he began leading her down to the pool. "That sounds lovely. After all, can't be left by my own company for too long, can I?"

_Should I do 'The Hungry Earth/Cold Blood'? I'm a bit torn. Review, s'il vous plait!_


	8. The Hungry Earth

_So my schedule for episodes will be this: I'll start right here on 'The Hungry Earth/Cold Blood' and leave 'Vincent and the Doctor'. Instead of that episode, there'll be [REDACTED]. Then we'll be back for some light-hearted 'The Lodger', because that'll be fun, wink wink nudge nudge awesome awkward hilarium. Then we'll keep going with 'The Pandorica Opens/The Big Bang', as well as the beginning of series six. Anyway, here's some more!_

_W'P_

"Mind if we keep on along with you lot?" The Poet asked, shaking a white towel through her hair that was now soaked from the swimming pool. The Doctor looked over at her, an eyebrow raised. They were sitting at the edge of the pool, feet in the water after swimming a few lengths.

"'Course you can. Wouldn't have it any other way." The Doctor answered just as lightly, with a smile.

"Thank you. It's not just for me. Donovan gets a bit tired of my company." The Poet hopped up and started walking, the Doctor catching up with her. "You think we should go on holiday?"

"All of us?" The Poet gave him a look. "Oh, ah, then, yes. Yes, I think we all need a holiday. Shall we let them decide?"

"Sounds like a plan. See you in two ticks." The Poet slipped into the ladies' changing room and finished drying off before quickly putting her classic suit back on and grabbed her bowler on the way out. Back down the hall and in the lobby, Alistair was leaned back in a chair, talking with Rory and Amy. They laughed amicably as the Poet walked over to join them.

"The Doctor and I have decided that we need a holiday. All of us." She announced to the three humans. "And you three outstanding people get to compromise on where."

"I vote Rio." Amy said, after only a moment of thought. The Poet leaned back against the console and waited for them to decide. She waved at the Doctor as he hopped over to them.

"Hmm, how about . . . Greece?" Alistair suggested.

"Venice could be good."

"Not after last time."

"Fair point."

"I like the sound of Rio." Rory admitted.

"Yeah, that's better than Greece anyway."

"Everyone decided?" The Poet asked them.

"Yes." Amy stood up proudly and put her hands on her hips, dramatically flipping a bit of flaming hair over her shoulder. "As spokeswoman of the humans on board this vessel, I declare our holiday destination to be Rio de Janeiro!" Alistair and Rory applauded diplomatically, Amy bowing as she took her seat.

"Excellent!" The Doctor clapped his hands together and ran around the console. "Poet, could I have a hand?"

"I'd be delighted." The Time Lady helped to drive the TARDIS, because when it came to piloting the lovely machine, the more the merrier. After a few minutes of the good old jolting around and shuddering to a halt, the whole group clambered over each other to get to the door, though the Doctor beat them to it.

"Behold!" He exclaimed, and threw open the door. "Rio!"

Outside, the TARDIS seemed to have parked in an old graveyard. Pale sun shone through a ceiling of light clouds on an old church and a couple dozen worn tombstones. Not very far off, a couple pines were crawling into the graveyard, looking like they were competing. It seemed to be about late fall, because it was quite chill.

"Not really getting the sunshine, carnival vibe." Rory stated as they took in their surroundings.

"No." The Doctor said as though it were obvious. "Look at that, though." He walked forward a bit.

The Poet put a hand over her eyes and peered down the hill the church was set on. "Ooh, what's that?" She looked down and bounced on her heels a bit. "And oh, that's different."

The Doctor was jumping up and down a little, as though testing the pavement. "The ground feels strange. Wait," He paused. "Oh, that's weird."

"What's weird?" Alistair had only just started snapping out of his apparently crushing disappointment that he was not in Rio.

"Doctor, stop trying to distract us." Amy said in exasperation. "We're in the wrong place." The Time Lord ignored her, walking past the humans to start around the perimeter of the church. "Doctor, it's freezing and I'm dressed for Rio. We are not stopping here. Poet, can you please reason with him?" Amy asked, as the Doctor knelt to pull up a tuft of grass.

But neither Gallifreian was listening. They were both looking at the expanse of graves, and the grass that took up the large yard. In some places, seemingly random, the grass grew a different colour.

"Blue grass?" The Doctor murmured. He and the Poet exchanged a slightly confused glance and looked back at the humans, who were just catching up. "Patches of it all around the graveyard. So!" He tucked a couple blades of the blue plant in his jacket. "2020-ish, ten years in your future. Wrong continent for Rio, I'll admit, but it's not a massive overshoot."

"Why are those people waving at us?" Amy asked, directing their gazes at a hill a good way in the distance, where two tiny figures stood, waving at them.

"It can't be." The Doctor pulled out a pair of binoculars and peered through them. "It is!" He handed them over to the Poet, who gave a short, incredulous laugh.

"It's you two!" She exclaimed, passing the binoculars back. "Sorry, Donovan."

"No, we're here. How can we be up there?" Rory asked, as Amy grinned.

"Ten years in your future; come to relive past glories, I'd imagine." The Doctor pondered. "Humans. You're so nostalgic."

"We're still together in ten years?" Amy asked rhetorically.

"No need to sound to surprised." Rory replied dryly.

"Hey, let's go talk to them!" Amy voiced the idea out loud, smiling. "We can say hi to future us! How cool is that?"

"Ah, no, best not, really best not." The Doctor cut in, as the redhead took a step. "These things get complicated very quickly."

"Oh, look." The Poet directed their attention down the hill as she pointed, peering through the Doctor's binoculars. Between the trees, a large structure could be seen in the gray light of the afternoon. "A big mining thing. Love a big mining thing . . ." She muttered a bit to herself.

"Not again . . ." Alistair breathed grumpily. "Poet, remember last time."

"See? Way better than Rio. Rio doesn't have a big mining thing." The Doctor said, his tone a tiny bit defensive in light of his and the Poet's bad driving skills.

"We're not gonna have a look, are we?" Amy groaned in disappointment.

"Let's go and have a look." The Doctor and Poet said in unison, and pointed at each other happily before charging down the hill.

"Come on you three, let's go see what they're doing!" The Time Lord called back as they picked their way past the stone graves, down the hill. He looked over at the Poet, who was smiling a little vaguely. "So, there was another time with a big mining thing?"

The woman looked over at him, still smiling. "Yeah. Got in a bit of trouble there, turns out miners don't like people dropping in to inspect their work unannounced. It's a long story, and not a very good one." She laughed and looked back at Alistair, who was frowning in disapproval at the memory, like a parent might frown at a child who stole too many biscuits from the tin.

Eventually, they all came down to a collection of buildings, the lot beyond guarded by a tall metal fence. "'Restricted access. No unauthorised personnel.'"

The Doctor read from the warning sign on the gate. Without missing a beat, he pulled out the sonic and the padlock opened with a clang of metal on metal. Amy and Alistair jumped at the loud noise, the former lowering her voice to hiss, "That is breaking and entering!"

"What'd I break?" The Doctor countered as he took the lock from the gate. "Sonicing and entering. Totally different." After another second of fiddling, he pushed the gate open, which creaked on its hinges. Amy gave him her own look of disapproval and walked in. The Poet followed Alistair into the lot.

"You're sure Rory will catch us up?" The Doctor asked back to them, before following them as well.

"Poet, what are we even doing here?" Alistair muttered, looking around in paranoia. "We're definitely not supposed to be here. This is top secret—I came from only two years before this, it was in all the papers. It's real big and important, this is really bad that we're here."

"You've never been worried before." The Poet noted lightly, spinning on her heel to take in all the different mining things. "What's made you change your mind?"

"Because this is only two years in my future!" He hissed, lowering his voice and looking around more. "I know what all this is! The planets, the strange places far away, that's different. Even going into Earth's past is different. I don't know, being here just . . . it's just weird, okay?"

The Poet gave him a long look. They were going underground now, down some stairs into a cellar-like area. "I understand. If it bothers you, you can go—ooh, it feels very different down here." She tapped her feet.

"Yes, a lot more down here!" The Doctor agreed, glancing back at them.

"I honestly have no idea what you two are on about." Amy sighed. The Doctor stopped, as though thinking.

"The ground doesn't feel like it should." He noted quietly, and continued walking.

"It's ten years in the future. Maybe how this ground feels is how it always feels." Amy suggested hopefully.

"Good thought, but no, it doesn't." The Doctor reached into his jacket and pulled out his sonic, looked at its "results" for a moment, and pocketed it again. There were a few alarums from a distance. "Here that? Drill's in starter mode. After waves of a recent seismological shift, blue grass." He put the blades from his jacket in his mouth, chewed them once, and quickly spat them out.

"Oh, please." Amy laughed, while Alistair made a face of mild revulsion. "Have you always been this disgusting?"

The Doctor looked at them both for a moment, and at the Poet, who hadn't even batted an eye. "No. That's recent." And they continued walking through the dim corridor. "What's . . ." He poked his head out the door at the end of the hall. "Here? Oh, hello!"

They had emerged in a large room, what looked like where the drill was being controlled. There was a woman there, manning the helm, so to speak. She had short, dark hair that waved down to her shoulders, and was dressed in a suit. She seemed to be in about her mid-forties or early fifties, but looked a bit younger.

"Who are you?" She asked, sounding very annoyed. "What are you doing here? And what are you wearing?"

"I dressed for Rio." Amy grumbled, and got nudged by the Poet, who gave her a smirk that told her to wait for the time being.

The Doctor pulled out his fake papers, the psychic paper. "We're from the Ministry of Drills. Quite a new ministry, actually, um, just emerged. Puts a lot of responsibility on our shoulders, don't like to talk about it. What are you doing?"

"None of your business." The woman replied, though backed away as the two Time Lords in particular approached the screens on a long table in the tall room, flanked by their red-haired companions. Green characters and numbers ran along the screens in fast lines.

"Where are you getting these readings from?" The Poet asked, glancing up for a moment.

"Under the soil." The woman pulled a large metal pole from the earth and moved it to a pile of other equipment.

"The drill's up and running again." A balding man in a coat came in, and immediately a frown creased his face. He was slightly rotund, with white hair that evaded the top of his head. "What's going on? Who are these people?"

"Amy, Alistair, the Doctor, the Poet." Amy answered pointing to each person as she named them. The two latter people were kneeling near a sunken patch of earth, where there was soil instead of concrete, and suspiciously toying with the dirt. "We're not staying, are we, Doctor?"

"Why is there a big patch of earth in the middle of your floor?" The Doctor asked instead of answering.

"We don't know." The woman replied. "It just appeared overnight."

The Poet looked up, and met the Doctor's eyes with an expression that mirrored his, and they both jumped up to their feet. "Good, okay, all right, I think we all need to get out of here very fast." The Poet dashed over and began ushering Amy and Alistair out. The former shrugged away and instead decided to peer at the patch of earth, hands on her knees, and frowned.

"What's your name?" The Doctor asked the woman.

"Nasreen Chaudhry."

"Look at your screens, Nasreen, look at your readings, they're moving."

"Amy, please, I think you should stay back from there." The Poet gave Alistair a little push toward the door and came back to the earth patch. There was thick, white steam roiling in waves in the small sunken bit of floor.

"Is this steam a good thing?" She asked the Time Lady across from her. The Doctor looked over as well.

"Shouldn't think so." She replied, and jumped back up to her feet. "It's shifting, shifting, why's it shifting when it _shouldn't be shifting?_"

"What shouldn't?" Nasreen asked, and as though on a cue, the entire room shook. Not just the room; it was a tiny earthquake, jostling everyone around a bit.

"The ground, the soil, the earth, moving." The Doctor waved his hands to emphasise his words. "But how? Why?" The rumbling was continuing, more violently, enough that they now had to speak up.

"Is it an earthquake?" Alistair called over.

"Doubt it." The Doctor dashed back to the screens for a moment. "Because it's only happening under this room."

There was a huge bursting noise, a great crashing as two more steam-filled craters collapsed into the floor. The room continued to rumble and shake after. The Poet leapt back, one hole having appeared almost directly under her feet. "It knows we're here, whatever it is. The ground's attacking, it's attacking _us_!"

"Ah ha, that not possible!" Nasreen laughed, albeit nervously, and pointed at one of the holes as though that would prove her point.

"Under the circumstances, I'd suggest . . ." The Doctor paused, looked at them all, and he and the Poet nodded in agreement. "Run!" They took off, stumbling across the room and leaping over the steamy craters, which followed them to make a trail of holes in the earth. There was a cry, and the Time Lords, Nasreen and Alistair, who were by the door, spun around. The man in the coat had gotten his foot caught.

"Tony!" Nasreen cried. Amy stopped and turned, intent on helping.

"Stay back, Amy!" The Poet yelled over the crashing of the earth beneath them. "Stay away from the earth!" The young woman now looked very torn, wanting both to run and to help Tony, trapped in the ground. After a second of consideration, she jumped over a large crater and began pulling the miner from the ground. She looked up, obviously needing help, when the crater next to her extended, plunging her a goor foot down.

"Amy!" All but Nasreen yelled out in panic, and the Doctor quickly ran over to start pulling her from the earth as well. Nasreen scampered over to pull Tony out, and they both came back to the entrance by the Poet and Alistair.

"Your drill!" The Doctor cried at the miners. "Shut it down, now!"

"Doctor!" The Poet yelled, and was about to offer her help.

"Go, help them!" He called back, and the Time Lady bounced on her heels with indecision before running after the humans. Nasreen and Tony began to shut down the drill, trying as hard as they could. The Poet, not knowing how she could help, turned to Alistair.

"Go back up there." She commanded. "Find Rory." Before he could say anything she slapped his shoulder. "Go!"

The sound of the drill working came to a halt, and the ground stopped shaking. The Poet ran back to the main room, jogging to a halt when she saw the Doctor sonicing a now empty patch of earth. "Oh, no." She breathed. "No, no . . . Amy . . ."

The other two caught up with her a few seconds later, gasping. "Where is she?" Nasreen asked.

"She's gone." The Doctor murmured after a pause. "The ground took her." He began pacing back and forth, his expression a bit blank. Nasreen walked over to stand by the screens, inspecting the readings.

"Is that what happened to Mo?" Tony asked, looking between the Doctor and Poet. "Are they dead?"

"It's not quicksand." The Doctor stated. "She didn't just sink. Something pulled her in, it wanted her."

"The ground wanted her?" Nasreen asked.

"You said the ground was dormant. It was just a patch of earth when you first saw it this morning. And the drill had been stopped." The Doctor quit his pacing and looked over to Tony for confirmation of this assumption, which he provided.

"But when you restarted the drill this morning," The Poet frowned. "The ground faought back."

"So, what, the ground wants us to stop drilling?" Nasreen asked sarcastically.

"We're not saying, and it's not ridiculous, I just don't think it's right." The Doctor soniced the patch of earth and looked at the results. "Oh, oh ho ho, of course." He laughed dryly. "It's bio-programming."

"Is it really?" The Poet used her own sonic on the earth, and her thin eyebrows shot up. "Huh. Should have known."

There was a very short pause. "What?" Nasreen asked bluntly.

"Bio-programming." The Doctor repeated, standing abruptly and clapping his hands together. "Oh, clever! You use bio-signals to resonate the internal molecular structure of natural objects. It's mainly used in engineering and construction. Mostly jungle planets, but that's way in the future, not here. What's it doing here?"

"Sorry, did you just say 'jungle planets'?" Nasreen interruped incredulously.

"You're not making any sense, either of you!" Tony added.

"Excuse me, we're making perfect sense." The Poet replied a little bit coldly. "You're just not keeping up." Nasreen laughed a little and looked at Tony, crossing her arms. "The earth, the ground beneath our feet, was bio-programmed to attack.

"Okay, even if that were possible—which, by the way, it's not—why?" The female miner asked.

"Stop you drilling." The Doctor explained. "We find whatever's doing the bio-programming, we can find Amy. We can get her back. Shh, shh, shh! Have I gone mad? I've gone mad."

"Doctor, of course you—" The Poet started.

"Shh, shh! Silence!" He cut in, a finger to his lips. "Absolute silence." The miners sighed a little in frustration, but obeyed. After a moment, the Poet heard it, too. Her mouth formed a small 'o' in suspicion, and the Doctor stepped over a crater to peer at Nasreen. She was shorter than him by a few inches.

"You stopped the drilling?" He asked.

"Yes."

"And you've only got the one drill?"

"Yes . . ."

"You _sure _about that?"

"Yes." Tony said, more forcefully. Both Time Lords looked over to him, at each other, at Nasreen, and then at the ground.

The Poet dropped down where she stood, getting a couple of odd looks from the miners, which she ignored. "If you shut the drill down," She murmured, her ear pressed against the dirt, her body flat like she was going to do a push-up. She turned her head a little to give the dirt a little suspicious sniff, but then turned to lay her ear against the earth again. There was a humming, gentle but not stopping, coming from below the earth. "Why can I still hear drilling?"

The miners leaned forward, as though trying to hear for themselves. The Poet jumped up, brushing dust from her suit, but only leaving smears of light brown dirt. "It's under the ground."

"That's not possible." Tony denied. After the Doctor had a quick listen, he joined the Poet by the screens, and they both soniced the computers for a few seconds, much to Nasreen's distress.

"Oh, what are you doing?" She cried, hurrying over to them.

"Hacking into your records." The Doctor answered, long fingers flying over the clacking keys. "Probe sensors, samples, good. Just unite all the data, make it one big conversation. Let's have a look." He pointed at the screen in front of the Poet. "So, we're here, and this is your drill hole. Twenty-one point zero zero nine kilometres. Well done." He genuinely praised Nasreen, who smiled.

"Thank you." She said, a little proudly. "It's taken us a long time."

"Why here, though?" The Poet looked over her shoulder at the woman behind her, who was shorter than her. "Why drill here?"

"We found patches of grass in this area." Nasreen answered, looking between the two at the monitors. "Containing minerals unseen in this country for twenty million years."

"The blue grass? Oh, Nasreen." The Doctor clapped a hand on her shoulder. "The trace minerals weren't X marks the spot, 'Dig Here'. They were a warning: 'Stay Away'. 'Cause while you've been drilling down . . ." Here the Time Lords exchanged yet another glance, a worried one this time. "Some else has been drilling up."

"Oh." The Poet said to the monitor, drawing their attention. A figure of thin, vertical lines showed up, some of them crossing into each other like a spider's web. "Beautiful. A network of tunnels all the way down."

"No, no, we've surveyed that area." Tony pointed to the tunnels on screen.

"You only saw what you were looking for." The Doctor explained. There was a regular, paced beeping coming from the monitors, like a heart monitor. Clinging to one tunnel line like water droplets were three pulsing dots.

"What are they?" Nasreen asked, pointing to the dots.

"Heat signals. Wait," The Poet looked over at the other screen and back to hers. "Dual readings; hot and cold, doesn't make sense." The beeping became faster. She glanced down and tapped a couple keys. "And now they're moving. Fast."

"How many people live nearby?" The Doctor turned to the miners, who were beginning to look concerned.

"Just my daughter and her family." Tony said. "The rest of the staff travel in."

"Grab this equipment." The Doctor patted the tops of the monitors. "Follow us. Poet?"

"Right behind you."

"Why, where are you going?" Nasreen called. They turned around, and the Doctor answered.

"That noise isn't a drill." He said. "It's transport. Three of them, thirty kilometres down. Rate of speed looks about a hundred and fifty kilometres an hour. Should be here in . . . ooh, quite soon."

The Poet did some quick math. "Twelve minutes." She took one of the screens, which was really nestled into a large briefcase that could close up and be carried, and followed the Doctor.

"Whatever bio-programmed the earth is on its way up. Now." The latter called back. The Time Lords carried the screens out of the compound and started jogging out into the grassy area beyond, back toward the church.

"Doctor, what's down there?" The Poet asked, a little out of breath. The computers in the briefcases were heavy. "I'm not much in the habit of visiting to Earth; I heard you come here quite often. Those two are related."

The Time Lord glanced at her, and then back at the two humans who were close behind. "I think we're going to find out."

"Doctor!" Tony called up to them. "How can something be coming up if there's only the Earth's crust down there?"

"You saw the readings!" He huffed and slid down a bit of a hill, helping the Poet so she wouldn't slip, and continued jogging.

"Who are you two, anyway?" Nasreen cried up to them. "How can you know all of this?" There was a noise like a loud wind, hissing overhead. "Whoa. Did you see that?" Red veins of energy shot across the sky high above them, like lightning.

"No, no, no!" The Doctor gasped in disbelief. He jumped up the tiny gully to flat ground and grabbed something up—a slingshot. He put a stone in it and shot the pebble off high into the air. After a pause, another pulse of red light bloomed where the stone had gone off, and faded.

Meanwhile, the Poet had taken out her sonic and pointed it at the sky, the blue light glowing dimly in the pale sun. "Energy signal originating from under the earth." She called out. On some sort of cue, the entire sky went completely red to reveal it was not the sky at all, but an enormous dome enclosing them. She kept her sonic on to keep the dome visible.

"Poet, there you are." The woman looked over to see Alistair marching out from behind the buildings nearby, with Rory in tow. Along with them were a young boy and a woman in a long, pink jacket. She looked like the boy's mother, with stern but not unkind features and reddish-brown hair pulled back in a bun.

"Ah, Alistair, I see you found Rory like I asked. Well done." The Poet smiled a little snarkily and looked back up at the red "sky".

"Guys, something weird is going on." Said human called, walking up to join them. "The graves are eating people."

"Not now, Rory." The Time Lords snapped in unison, but only the Doctor continued. "Energy barricade. Invisible to the naked eye." He observed, referring to the dome. "We can't get out, and no one from the outside world can get in."

"What?" Rory asked, paused and spoke again. "Okay, what about the TARDIS?"

"Uh, no, those energy patterns would play havoc with the circuits." The Doctor replied, checking his wristwatch. The Poet lowered her arm to observe the readings on her sonic. "A bit of time, maybe, but we've only got nine and a half minutes."

"Nine and a half minutes to what?" Alistair asked.

"We're trapped and something's burrowed towards the surface." Nasreen answered bluntly.

There was a tense pause, and then after looking around a bit, Rory asked a question none of them hoped would occur to him, but of course, did. "Where's Amy?"

"Get everyone inside the church." The Doctor said, instead of answering the question, and grabbed up a briefcase computer. The Poet glanced back at him as he stopped to explain to Rory, but continued to usher everyone to the church.

"Seriously, though, where is she?" Alistair asked after they were out of earshot from them, and getting close to the church.

The Poet sighed. "She was sucked into the Earth, having been arguably kidnapped by _something_ that is currently digging up to come say hello to all the rest of us." At the horrified look from her companion, the Time Lady simply shrugged as they went into the church. "Though, you've got to admit, we've been in worse."

Alistair paused, thinking, as the Poet set down the drilling equipment inside and took a breath of relief, rolling her shoulder. After some thought, he admitted, "Yeah, you're right. But that doesn't make this a good scenario."

"So, we can't get out," The woman in pink tried to summarise. "We can't contact anyone, and something, the something that took my husband, is coming up through the earth."

"Yes." The Doctor confirmed as he entered a second later with Rory. "If we move quickly enough, we can be ready."

"No, stop." The woman snapped. "This has gone far enough. I mean, what is this?"

"He's telling the truth, love." Tony grumbled not unkindly.

"Come on!" She cried, looking around. All but Rory and the boy were helping set up the monitoring equipment, bustling about in the small, old room. "It's not the first time we've not had mobile or phone signals. Reception's always rubbish."

"Look, Ambrose," Nasreen finally sighed, straightening up. "_We _saw the Doctor's friend get taken, okay? _You _saw the lightning in the sky. I have seen the impossible today!" She laughed. "And the only person who's made any sense of it today is the Doctor and his wife. Them." She pointed.

"Me!" The Doctor poked his head up from behind some equipment, grinning happily, and ducked back down again.

"Why does everyone assume we're married?" The Poet wondered aloud.

"Can you get my dad back?" The boy cut in. Everyone stopped moving and turned to look at him. The absent rustling and tapping quieted, and for a moment, silence descended. There was a long, expectant pause.

"Yes." The Doctor said determinedly. "But I need you to trust me, and her, and do everything we say from _this second onwards _because we're running out of time." The Time Lord had marched across the room as he spoke, and now stood right in front of Ambrose, staring at her, waiting for an answer. The mother looked around, clearly on the spot, her accusing gaze shifting from the Doctor to the Poet to Nasreen and Tony and her son and back again.

"So tell us what to do." She whispered, her voice a nervous hiss in the quiet air of the abandoned church.

"Thank you." The Doctor checked his wristwatch again, backing up. "We have eight minutes to set up a line of defense. Bring me every phone, every camera, every piece of recording or transmitting equipment you can find." Outside now, his voice rose to a call. "Every burglar alarum, every movement sensor, every security light. I want the whole area covered with sensors."

Everyone was outside now with him, with all their transmitting equipment, taping and securing the technology to the perimeter, facing in. The Time Lords came around as the cameras and such were bolted on and gave them a quick turn with their sonics. Once everything had been set up, the group went back inside.

"Right, guys, we need to be ready for whatever's coming up." The Doctor continued his speech. "We need a map of the village, marking where the cameras are going."

"Poet!" Alistair came jogging over to her, holding his mobile phone. "Do I have to put this out there, too?"

"Every little bit counts, Donovan." She smirked at his dismayed expression. "Don't worry, I'll get a new one if that one gets wrecked. Now off you go, there's a good lad."

The Time Lady turned back toward the church and sidestepped the boy, whose name she had since discovered was Elliot, sitting on the steps, drawing what looked like a map of the village as the Doctor had requested. "Hey, looks great, Elliot!" She grinned.

The boy smiled up at her. "Thanks. I can't really do the words; I'm dyslexic."

"That's okay, look how great you're doing. I can't draw like that at all, so look how much far ahead of me you are already." Elliot broke out in a large grin and went back to feverishly colouring in the map as the Poet hopped back up into the church.

"Any ideas yet, Doctor?" She asked, looking over Tony's shoulder at the monitors, which were now counting down the time to surface breach.

"A few, all certainly incorrect." He answered, also watching the screens. Elliot came over a moment later, proudly holding the map, and the Poet walked outside again to find Alistair. She needed to get his mobile working properly outside. After striding quickly around the graveyard for a few minutes, she found the ginger morosely duct-taping the mobile to a tall tombstone.

"I really liked that one, too." He lamented.

"Oh, grow up. It'll be absolutely fine." The Poet soninced it for a quick second and tucked the screwdriver back in her suit jacket.

"Poet," Alistair said after a pause. "What's coming?"

"I'm not sure yet. Something that lives underground, I'm assuming." She said, and started off, only to be pulled back.

"Poet, I'm serious!" Alistair snapped. "Do you have any idea at all? Because I know you don't like admitting that you really don't know something. Just now you said you aren't 'sure', when clearly you don't have any guesses. So tell me, honestly. Do you know, or not?"

The Time Lady took off her bowler to run a hand through her hair in exasperation, and then sighed. "No. I don't. But whatever is it, we _have _to be ready to meet it halfway. Else we may as well just surrender now."

"I suppose . . . you're right. As usual. And, Poet?"

"Yes, Donovan?"

"Why is it dark?"

"What?" The Poet looked up and around to see that, indeed, the entire area was now dark as midnight. "They've enclosed the entire area, trapped us in the dark." A rumbling interrupted her, and she and her companion met gazes. "I think it's best we get back to the church." The pair sprinted off, dodging graves and heading back to the dot of light by the church entrance. The Doctor, Ambrose and Rory were already there, struggling to open the door.

"It's sticking! The wood's warped!" Ambrose cried, shoving and pulling with all her might.

"Any time you want to help!" The Doctor snapped back at Rory.

"Can't you sonic it?" He asked, as though it were obvious.

"It doesn't do wood."

The human made a little noise of contempt. "That is rubbish."

Both Time Lords took immediate offense, yelling out similar things in defense of their favourite tool. Rory's eyes widened for a moment, and he pushed his way through, and with one more person, the door fell open. All five ran inside, slamming it behind them. The ground was shaking now, and boxes and other miscellanea were falling from the shelving behind them, adding crashes and thumping to the mix of loud noises. The Time Lords were working on the computers to pinpoint the location of the somethings that had hit the surface, when quite suddenly the light bulbs above their heads burst in loud showers of sparks, making everyone yell out in surprise.

There was a few seconds of silence. The only sounds were little bits of panting, as the heavy atmosphere of anticipation settled in the room like a heavy fog. Through the darkness, a tiny creak and clink could be heard.

"No power." Tony said, though it was insultingly loud in the room.

"It's deliberate." The Doctor said, now pacing. A beam of white light cut through the room as Tony turned on a spare torch.

"What have we got?" Rory asked.

"Nothing; we've got nothing!" The Doctor snapped, throwing up his hands. "They sent a energy surge to blow out our systems."

The Poet did a quick head count, squinting in the light the torch provided. "Is everyone okay? Anyone injured?" There were 'no's and 'I'm fine's echoed in the room. Then, a most peculiar thing happened. The ground felt like it had dropped out from under them for a second, making the Poet's stomach drop, which was then followed by more of the ground rumbling.

"Okay, either of you," Alistair said, with the tone of trying to keep his panic under control. "What was that?" The Poet dropped down to her hands and knees, pressing her ear to the floor like earlier in the day.

"It's like the holes at the drill station." Tony said.

"Is this how they happened?" Ambrose asked. No one answered.

"It's here." The Poet murmured. "It's coming through the final layer of earth." She jumped back up to her feet, staring at the ground.

"What is?" Nasreen asked, her own torch directed between the two Gallifreians. It suddenly became very obvious that the rumbling and banging in the earth had stopped, a fact that Tony pointed out. For a brief moment, it was very, very quiet in the church.

"Where's Elliot?" Ambrose broke the silence, looking around. "Has anyone seen Elliot? Did-did he come in? Was he here when you closed the door?"

The Doctor, as this was being said, and they started looking around, began to look a little guilty, staring out at the room in what seemed like growing horror. "Doctor?" The Poet asked quietly. "Where is he?"

"He said he was going to get headphones." He replied loud enough so everyone could hear.

Ambrose turned on him instantly. "And you let him _go_?" She asked incredulously. "He was out there on his own!"

The Doctor said nothing, though as it turns out, he didn't need to. A few moments passed in more silence, before there was a panicked banging on the door. "Mum! Mum, Grandpa Tony, let me in!"

"Elliot!" Ambrose cried, and rushed to the door. Tony and Rory rushed over to help, pulling and yelling at the bad door. The wood creaked and groaned at the pressure it was being put under. The yelling on the other side stopped just before the door gave, sending the two men stumbling back. Ambrose rushed out, quickly followed by everyone else, but there was no one on the other side.

"He was here!" She squealed. "Elliot!" After a few more steps out in the graveyard, the mother took off running. "Elliot!"

"Ambrose, don't go running off!" The Doctor called, only to be ignored.

"Ambrose!" Tony trundled after his daughter, leaving the group at the church down two.

"We better go help them." The Poet said to the Doctor, who nodded in agreement. The former turned to the rest of the group. "All of you, stay here; the Doctor and I will be back, just no one go anywhere!" The Time Lord and Lady turned and ran after the other two. There was a bloodcurdling scream from not far off, and they picked up the pace, dodging tombstones and tripping over clumps of grass.

"What happened?" The Doctor called.

"It hurt my dad." Ambrose sobbed.

"Get him back to the church, now."

"Elliot's gone." The mother wept, tears shining on her cheeks. "They've killed him, haven't they?"

"I don't think so," The Poet added, looking around.

"They've taken three people when they could have just killed them up here." The Doctor reasoned. "There's still hope, Ambrose. There's always hope."

"Then why have they taken him?" She cried.

"I don't know. I'll find Elliot, I promise, but first we've got to stop this attack. Please, get inside the church." Ambrose, after a moment of giving the Doctor and look so venomous the Poet thought he may have been poisoned, she slung Tony's arm over her shoulder and began trudging back up the hill.

"So, now what?" The Poet asked. "Got a plan? I usually do. Here," She reached into her suit jacket and pulled out what looked like sunglasses. "I have a suspicion, and these will confirm it."

The Doctor took the glasses and put them on. He looked around, held out his hand and then broke out in a smile. "Oh, Poet. You are brilliant, aren't you?" He pulled the glasses down and looked at her over them. "You just had these on you?"

She shrugged. "You never know. Got to be prepared. Plus, they're super fun to use."

"Yes, yes they are." The Doctor agreed, looking around some more. "Now, here's the plan."

After going over the Plan, the two ran down the rest of the hill, out of the graveyard, and down to the meals on wheels van that Ambrose had parked outside. The Poet hopped into the back. "Ooh, it's cold in here." The Doctor smirked before closing the door.

The Poet could hear his footsteps fading away. There was silence in the van. She could hear her own breathing, a little shaky with adrenaline. Gooseflesh erupted along her arms as her body tried to adjust to the refrigerator that she was crouched in. Every movement was painfully loud; the shift of her foot, the rustle of her hat being adjusted, a little breath as she swallowed. The footsteps came back, along with some whistling. The Poet rolled her eyes. The door up front opened, and then closed again. There was one final moment of silence, and the van was suddenly and violently rocked back and forth as something slammed into it full-force.

The Poet heard a whooshing noise outside, a female yell of panic, and she burst out of the van. Together, she and the Doctor grabbed the humanoid whatever-it-was, pushed in into where the Poet had just been hiding out, and slammed the door on it. The creature was female, at least, as her yells of anger and fight could be heard through the van as the vehicle was tossed back and forth.

"That went well!" The Poet gasped, smiling.

"Defending the planet with meals on wheels!" The Doctor laughed. They almost high-fived, but a shift in the earth and a warbling noise stopped them.

"They're leaving?" The Poet wondered aloud. "Without her?" She jerked a thumb at the van doors. The sky above them cleared, and it was once again mid-afternoon. "Did we scare them off?"

"No, I don't think so." The Doctor muttered. "Now, both sides have hostages."


	9. Decisions

_Two-parters take a while. That last chapter was an epic one, but as I said, this is the last "copy episode(s)" I'll be doing until The Lodger. So hang on tight. _

"_Nothing in life is to be feared. It is only to be understood." -Marie Curie_

_W'P_

The Poet was sitting outside; crossed-legged in the cool, damp grass. She was waiting for the Doctor to come back, as he had gone back inside the church to check up on the humans and inform them of their guest in the crypt. She fiddled with her sonic screwdriver in the meanwhile, the little blue light turning on and off as she set it to different-pitched waves. After a few minutes of this, the Doctor came bouncing down the steps.

"So, I think I've met these creatures before." He concluded as the Poet stood. "Different branch of the species, mind, but still, all the same. Let's go see if our friend has thawed out." They went inside the crypt and began going down. "Now, I need you to talk to her alone, not me this time."

"Okay, right." The Poet paused. "Wait, why me?"

"You're female, she's female. You'll connect better." The Doctor frowned and glanced back at her. "I think. Women work that way, right?"

"In my experience, yes." They lowered their voices as they came to their guest's "room"—it was really more like a cell. "Are you sure?"

"Ah, there's no one I'd trust more." The Doctor smiled and pointed up the way they came. "I'll be over there. Good luck."

The Poet took a quick breath, straightened her bowler, dusted off her jacket as best she could, and put on a friendly expression as she stepped down into the room. "Hello," She greeted quietly, but pleasantly. "I'm the Poet. It's okay, I'm just here to talk."

The woman crawled out of the corner, poised on her fingertips and the balls of her feet. There was a mask covering her face, but bright green scales and ridges could be seen behind the gray reptilian mask, which had exaggerated features like a curling, thin mouth and huge, black eyes. She wore what looked like armour, but lighter and more suited for fighting or scouting. A faint, defensive hissing could be heard as she edged warily forward, still crouched.

The Poet held her hands up to show she had no weapons. "I'm going to remove your mask now." She said, and crouched down in a similar manner so the two women were eye-level with each other. The female thing hissed as the Poet reached forward, but did not fight or pull away as the Time Lady gingerly removed the mask, and then smiled. The woman had angled, pleasant features, all covered in scales like a lizard, though looked really rather human.

"You are very lovely." The Poet complimented, and set the mask aside. "A remnant of a bygone age on planet Earth. And by the way, that's a great mode of travel. Geothermal currents projecting you up through a network of tunnels." She grinned hugely and nodded in approval. "Would you mind if I sit?" She stood and grabbed a chair from off to the side and sat down where she had previously been crouched, and took off her hat.

"Now," She began, leaning back comfortably. "Your people have a friend of mine. I want her back." The reptilian woman said nothing. "Why did you come up to the surface?" Still, no response. "What do you want?" The Poet paused, thinking, after more silence, and decided to try a different approach. "Would you mind telling me how many more of you there are?"

"I am the last of my species." The woman finally replied. Her voice was dry and soft, though defensive and clearly hiding anger.

"Really?" The Poet's eyebrows shot up for a moment, but then she smiled knowingly. "Ah, the Klempari Defence. Clever, but I'm afraid it's been used much too often as an interrogation technique to fool someone like me at this point. Now, could you please answer the question honestly?"

"I am the last of my species." She insisted.

"No, you're really not." The Poet's voice had gained the slightest edge, her green eyes somewhat steely. "Because until very recently I believed I was the last of my species, and it turns out there are still only two of us. So, don't insult me." The Time Lady took a breath and smiled again. "Let's try this once more. Could I have your name?"

The woman paused before hissing, "Alaya."

"How long has your tribe been sleeping under the earth, Alaya?" There was, once again, no response but cold silence and an even colder glare. "It's not difficult to work out, you're three hundred million years out of your comfort zone. So, what woke you up now, of all times?"

"We were attacked." Alaya snarled.

That one took the Poet a second. "The drill."

"Our sensors detected a threat to our life support systems." Alaya went on. "The Warrior Class was awoken to protect us from the threat. We will wipe the vermin from the surface and reclaim our planet."

"Oh, do you have to say 'vermin'? They're really quite nice." The Poet defended quietly.

"Primitive apes."

"Extraordinary species. You attack them, they'll fight back. But," The Poet leaned forward. "We can achieve peace, here. I can help you."

"This land is ours." Alaya said, voice shaking. "We lived here _long_ before the apes."

"I'm afraid that doesn't give you the rights to it now." The Poet rebutted, letting her hand fall down on her hat. "The humans won't give up their home."

"So we destroy them."

"You underestimate them."

"You underestimate us!"

"One tribe of homo reptilia versus six billion humans?" The Poet asked. "How do you like your odds?"

"We do not initiate combat," Alaya said indignantly, standing. The Poet stood with her, donning her hat. "But we can still win."

"Alaya, I admire your bravery, and I can tell you are a very courageous woman." The Poet said. "But my conditions stand; I want my friend back. Give us back the people who were taken."

Alaya smiled, almost—just the slightest manipulating grin at the corner of her mouth. "No."

The Poet sighed, and buttoned her jacket. She picked up her chair and moved it back to where it had been. "I will not let you incite a war, Alaya. There will be no battle here today."

"The fire of war is already lit." Alaya snapped as the Poet began walking to the door. "A massacre is due."

"Not while I'm here."

"I'll gladly die for my cause." Alaya growled. "What will you sacrifice for yours?" The Poet did not reply, and instead continued walking up to the surface. The Doctor was waiting outside, and stood as she approached.

"So, how did it go?" He asked.

"Ah . . . it went well, and then not so well." The Poet recounted the interrogation, as word-for-word as she could get, as they walked back around the church, and finished just as they reached the entrance.

"Well, that settles it, then." The Doctor said, opening the door. "I have to go down there and negotiate with them myself."

"Wait, what did you say?" Alistair had been standing nearest the door, and everyone else gathered around the Time Lords as they entered.

Once everyone was listening, and he had explained the basics of what the homo reptilia were and who was down there, silence had encompassed the room. "I'm going below the surface, to find the rest of the tribe, to talk with them." The Doctor repeated. "She is only one of many."

"You're going to _negotiate_ with these aliens?" Ambrose asked with disgust, as though the very idea were repulsive.

"They're not aliens!" The Doctor corrected loudly. "They're earthlians. Once known as the Silurian race, or, some would argue, Eocenes. Or, homo reptilia. Not monsters, not evil! Well, only as evil as you. The previous owners of the planet, that's all."

"Look . . . from their point of view, you're the invaders." The Poet continued, her tone reasonable. "Your drill was threatening their settlement. Now, the creature in the crypt." She looked around at all of them. "Her name is Alaya. She's one of their warriors."

"She's my best bargaining chip." The Doctor picked up, pacing around again. "If she lives, so do Elliot, and Mo, and Amy, because I _will _find them." He paused, looking around at them all, before continuing in a lower voice. "While I'm gone, you four people, in this church, in this corner of planet Earth, have to be the _best of humanity_. Sorry, Poet."

"Not a problem."

"And what if they come back?" Tony asked. He sounded different than before—on edge, or angry or something along those lines. "Shouldn't we be examining this creature? Dissecting it? Finding its weak points?"

"No." The Doctor's voice rose again. "No dissecting, no examining. We return their hostage, and they return ours. No one gets hurt. We _can_ land this together! You are decent, brilliant people. Nobody dies today." He stopped again to look at them, all nodding a little bit in agreement. "Understand?"

Nasreen burst out in applause, which no one joined her in, and she quickly stopped with a kindly look from the Poet. The Doctor started off out the door, and the Time Lady followed him. He quickly caught on, and turned around to stop her.

"No, no, no." He shook his head. "Not this time, not again. You have to stay here. Keep an eye on them." The Doctor smiled his cheeky little smirk at her, as though he already knew he had won the argument. "Give them someone to look up to."

The Poet opened her mouth, then closed it, and then actually spoke. "Oh, they didn't lie. You're good."

The Doctor grinned widely and grabbed her hand to peck the back of it. "The best. Be back before you know it."

"You better be." She called, and walked back to the others inside. Nasreen jogged after the Time Lord, who was quickly followed by Tony. The Poet clapped her hands together and looked around at Alistair, Rory, and Ambrose, who were still sitting around, as though waiting for instructions. A few minutes later, Tony came back inside, looking dejected.

"I know what you all are thinking." The Poet said to them. "And we can, as long as you let me do the talking. I'm the only one she's had a conversation with so far."

"What if she attacks you?" Ambrose snapped. "Then what? We have to attack back."

"For starters, that won't happen. And, if it does, you are not ever to attack her, understand?" They nodded again. "Okay. Follow me."

Not long after, the group found themselves in the crypt, piling after the Poet as she led on. They edged into the room, and the Poet waved and smiled. "Hello, Alaya. I thought you would like to know who else is here with you." The Poet stepped further into the room, letting the four others in the doorway with her.

"We're going to keep you safe." Rory assured her.

The Poet nodded in agreement. "We are going to get our hostages back from your tribe, and in exchange, we will return you to your people."

"No." Alaya snarled defiantly, and marched up to them. The shackles on her wrists stopped her from going further, but that sneer was on her face again. "Shall I tell you what's really going to happen, apes? One of you will kill me. My death shall ignite a war, and every stinking ape will be wiped from the surface of my beloved planet."

"We won't allow that to happen." Tony rumbled confidently.

"I know you apes better than you know yourselves." Alaya almost laughed, but she grew somber once again. "I know which one of you will kill me. Do you?"

The Poet looked around and began ushering the humans out. "Come on. Go, I'll talk with her." She turned back to Alaya once the others were out of earshot. "Don't start a fight when there is no need to, Alaya. We don't want war."

The Silurian smirked. "Stupid she-ape. Why would you think I desire peace?"

The Time Lady shook her head and walked out of the crypt, the sound of Alaya's shackles clinking in her ears like chimes. When she emerged on the surface, Alistair was waiting for her. "So, what's the plan?" He asked, pushing himself off a grave too worn to read the engraving of to follow her back to the church.

"Well, Alaya wants to kill everyone on the surface, including me, even though she knows I'm not human." The Poet summarised. "So, the plan now is, wait for the Doctor to conclude diplomatic relations with the homo reptilia."

"That's it? Wait? Ah, well. We've followed worse plans."

The Poet laughed. "That's true, unfortunately." She looked over at her companion. "Donovan, I don't think I've ever asked you if I kidnapped you away from anyone back in 2018."

Alistair raised a ginger eyebrow at her. "If that's an invitation, you're not really my type." He said. "I mean . . . two hearts?"

The Poet laughed again, but a real big laugh from her belly. "Oh, dear, of course not. I'm a bit old for you anyway, by about eight hundred and eighty years. I was just wondering, now that war with Earth and the Silurians is imminent. In _your_ future."

Alistair chuckled. "Ah, yeah, good reason, I suppose." He thought for a moment. "Yeah, there was someone. We were a bit on-again-off-again." He nodded as the Poet held the door open for him. "Engaged once, but things got complicated and we ended it."

"Oh, I'm sorry." The Poet sympathised. "What happened, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Ah, there was a conflict of interest regarding our families, one could say." Alistair shrugged. "The normal things. It was a bit archaic, but I wish we could have eloped or something. Maybe I could visit. I mean, it's only two years in the future."

"I could take you back, you know." The Poet sat down in a big, white armchair, an Alistair in the chair across from her. "If you really want me to."

"And stop running around the Universe?" He laughed. "No, I wouldn't give that up. Not even for him." At the Poet's mildly surprised look, he gave one to her in return. "All this time travelling together? I thought you knew I was gay."

"Sorry, didn't occur to me to ask. I don't define people by sexual orientation or race or all those other things humans seem to be so preoccupied with." The Poet waved a hand. "Such fleeting fancies for me. I've changed both of those between regenerations."

Ambrose hurried in a moment later with Tony, who was looking very sickly. The Poet stood up to let him take her seat, and Rory rushed over with a first aid kit. Ambrose, after seeing that he was taken care of, turned and walked determinedly away. The Time Lady present moved aside the collar of Tony's shirt to see a very bad looking sting mark on his neck. The veins around it were swollen and green, showing through the skin, which was coated in sweat and burning hot.

"Can you take care of him?" She asked Rory.

He nodded. "I'll try my best."

"Thank you." The Poet turned and began walking toward the door, but stopped at a sudden, very loud and agonised scream from the crypt. She, Rory and Alistair took off sprinting, fearing the worst. Even Tony wrenched himself from the chair to run with them. Upon arriving, it was clear the worst was true. Alaya was on the floor, her breath coming out in horrible weak wheezes, her hands clenching the air in pain, her limbs convulsing periodically. Ambrose was backed into a shelf, aiming a taser at Alaya's body like a gun.

The Poet fell to her side, scanned her body quick with her sonic and peered at it. Her expression darkened as Rory knelt beside them both. "S-she kept taunting me about Mo, and Elliot, and you." Ambrose stuttered pathetically to Tony.

"Shh, shh, it'll be okay." The Poet murmured to Alaya. "Please, please, let us help you!" She begged.

"I knew this would come," Alaya breathed, her voice coming out even more quietly than before; it was hardly audible, now. "And soon, the war . . ."

"It's okay, we can save you. I'm not going to let you die, not today!" The Poet assured her. "Please, what can we do to help?" She stopped talking as Alaya twitched horribly again, her breath hitching up high, before she was still. After several moments of the Poet shaking her head in disbelief, she reached slowly up and respectfully removed her hat. Suddenly, as though coming to an abrupt realisation, she clenched her jaw and stood, whirling on her heel to face Ambrose. The woman flinched a little at the dark look she was being given.

"You," The Poet started lowly, dangerously, and Alistair took a cautionary step back. He had heard her talk like that before. "You were supposed to be the best of humanity."The last words were quiet, but deathly calm. It would have been better if she were screaming. "This is _not _the best you could offer." She stepped aside to show Alaya's body.

"I-I just wanted my family back." Ambrose said weakly.

The Poet took a deep breath, her tone still a furious murmur. "Well, that may not happen now because of you." Turning around and tossing her hat to the side, the Poet shrugged off her jacket and placed it over Alaya's face. As she stood back up, the power flickered and wavered before going out completely, and then popping back on again. The computer monitor in one of the boxes by the shelving was now on, without it being plugged in. Alaya was looking out at them from it.

Or, at least, she certainly looked like Alaya. The Silurian on screen was clearly a different woman, but must have come from the same gene pool. There were waves of red scales down the sides of her face, and a scar across her eye. The Poet crouched down, putting on a calm exterior, and managed to smile a little. "Hello!"

"Who is the ape leader?" She asked. The Poet quickly took a step back.

"It can't be me." She whispered to them.

"What? Yes, it has to be!" Alistair argued.

"No; I'm not human. Humanity must speak for itself."

"Who speaks for the apes?" The Alaya look-alike demanded again.

"Just do it, she'll never know the difference!"

"Oh!" The Poet threw up her arms and walked back over the screen. "I speak for the humans, though, just for the record, I am not one of them."

"Do you know who we are?" The woman asked.

"Yes, I do."

"Then you should know that we have ape hostages." The view of the woman panned out, and the humans behind the Poet rushed forward as they saw their loved ones, and the Poet was not immune to this reaction.

"Amy!"

"Doctor. . ."

"Mo! Mo, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, love." The husband replied from on screen. "I've found Elliot, I'm bringing him home!"

"Amy, I thought I'd lost you." Rory breathed.

"What, 'cause I was sucked into the ground?" The camera moved over to show the redhead with a smile on her face at the sight of her fiancé. "You're so clingy."

"Doctor, I expect you to be back before dinner." The Poet sighed.

"Of course!" He gave her another cheeky grin, but was still clearly worried. "And, ah, not to interrupt, but just a quick reminder to _stay calm_."

"Show me Alaya." The camera moved back to the original homo reptilian woman. The humans and Time Lady looked at each other, hesitating. "Show me! Release her or we will kill your friends one by one."

"No!" Ambrose pushed through the others to kneel in front of the monitor. Tony tried pulling her back, but she shook him off. "Get off me, dad! We didn't start this!"

"Let the Poet deal with this, Ambrose!" The Doctor called from the screen.

"We are not doing what you say any more." The mother continued, ignoring the warnings. "Now give me back my family!"

There was a pause, only a few seconds total, but it seemed to last a very long time, as the woman who looked like Alaya seemed to actually consider this, tilting her head to the side and staring at the screen, out at them. The five people breathing on the surface side of the conversation sounded as loud as the ocean breaking against the rocks.

Finally, the woman came to her decision. "Hmm . . . No. Execute the girl!" The camera snapped over to a horrified Amy, who began struggling desperately against the bonds that held her to the column.

"No!" Rory yelled, out, shoving aside Ambrose to get to the screen. "No, no! She doesn't speak for us!"

"There's no need for this!" The Doctor cried, as Amy was ripped from the column by a couple Silurian guards and four with weapons aimed their guns at her.

"No, we'll do anything you want!" Rory's continued protests were in vain as the monitor went out, the black screen flashing with lines of white. The Poet smacked the side of it, even brought out her sonic and tried turning it back on, but the other side needed to be working, as well.

"I've got to get down there." Rory said after a pause, and turned to leave when the monitor interrupted him.

"Rory, hello!" The Doctor waved at them, smiling. "Oh, good, the Poet's with you, too."

"Where's Amy?" Rory asked urgently.

"She's fine!" The camera zoomed out and wobbled over to show the young woman.

"Keepin' you on your toes!" The redhead called, as the group on the surface side sighed with relief that no one was dead.

"No time to chat." The camera moved back to the Doctor. "Go to the drill store room. There's a large patch of earth in the middle of the floor. The Silurians are going to send transport discs, to bring you back down, using geothermal energy and gravity bubble technology. It's how they travel, and frankly, it's pretty cool. Bring Alaya, we can land this. It's all going to work out, promise! Got to dash, hurry up!" He gave them all thumbs-up and the screen went out again.

"The moment we get down there, everything will fall apart!" Tony exclaimed.

"No. No, we have to bring Alaya back." The Poet turned to the others, nodding. "It's the least we can do. We owe them that much."

"Here," Alistair grabbed a bright orange blanket from a shelf. "We can wrap her in this." The Poet picked her jacket up from the ground and put it back on, as Rory and Alistair wrapped Alaya's body in the fabric. Tony picked her up, and they all started off toward the drill store room.

Once there, it turned out that there was, indeed, transport already waiting for them. There were six perfectly circular platforms, about an inch deep in the floor, still steaming from their journey up.

"So, we just get on these and they take us down through the earth?" Tony asked skeptically.

"Geothermal gravity bubbles." Rory nodded, looked over at the Poet's raised eyebrow and shrugged a little "O-or something."

"They sent six." Ambrose observed, her voice shaking as she realised there were only five living people present. "She was our only bargaining chip."

"We have to give her back, Ambrose." The Poet said. "It's our responsibility."

"Wait!" The woman gasped. "Before we go down, there's . . . there's something I've got to do. Dad, I need your help."

"Okay, well, don't take very long. We've a meeting to attend." The Poet sighed and pinched the bridge of her noise and gestured to the other two. "Please, help me position her on her platform." The men nodded at each other and picked Alaya up, carefully positioning her so that her body fit on the circle between the two. The Poet took her place on the end, next to Alistair.

"Ready, Alistair?" She asked with a slight smirk.

The ginger sighed and tilted his head, the joints in his neck cracking. "Ready as I'll ever be, I suppose. Ever travelled like this before?"

"Can't say I have." She looked over at the two, both of whom seemed very apprehensive. The Time Lady sighed, and glanced over her shoulder as Tony and Ambrose came back in. "When we get down there, it's vital that you show your utmost humility and respect for them."

The other two, just arrived, stepped onto their platforms, and they were plunged into darkness. The Poet's stomach felt as though it had leaped up into her throat. Warm air rushed past her, flinging locks of hair up to cling to her hat. Distantly, and maybe she had imagined it, she could hear Ambrose's short scream of fear. And then, as quickly as it had started, they came to a gentle halt. The circles hissed as they lowered to the ground. Alistair, next to her, stumbled a little bit. The Poet stepped calmly from the glass chamber that they had landed in, though was actually trying her best to not let her knees wobble.

"Okay," She whispered, and gestured at Alaya, who was still wrapped in the orange blanket. "Tony, are you strong enough to carry her, please?"

"Yes." He picked the Silurian woman up, and, Poet leading, they all started off down the hall in the most obvious direction, as there was only one. The hall looked as though it had been carved out of stone. It was slightly humid, and vines and moss clung to the stone corridors. The Time Lady turned into the only room there, and stepped into a massive hall. Stadium seats were on either end, though empty, and not far off in the middle was a long conference table. Amy and Nasreen sat there, but were both standing upon seeing the Poet. Mo and Elliot stood off to the side, looking on anxiously.

The Doctor held up a hand in greeting, which the Poet mirrored half-heartedly, and walked in a few more paces. Alistair and Rory were right behind her, followed by Ambrose and finally, Tony.

"Mum!" Elliot ran over to his mother and hugging her around the waist.

"Rory!" Amy greeted, and grinned at him.

"Hello, Poet . . ." The Doctor trailed off, and his smile fell as Tony walked in, further than the others, and began to set Alaya down. "No. Don't do this. Tell me you _didn't_ do this." The Doctor crouched down, breathed out through his nose, and flipped the blanket away to expose Alaya's face. He only looked at her for a moment before covering her again.

"What did you do?" The Time Lord asked, accusingly, at Tony, who bowed his head in shame.

"It was me." Ambrose said, holding up her head. "I did it."

"Mum . . ." Elliot said, incredulous.

"I just wanted you back." Ambrose tried to explain, but Elliot pushed her hands away and walked back over to his father. The Doctor walked over to murmur something apologetic-sounding to the robed Ailurian, when Ambrose spoke up yet again. "This is our planet!" She cried, distressed. "Leave us alone!"

The Doctor was up in her face in an instant. "We had a chance here. In future, when you tell people about this, say you had a chance, but say that you blew it because you were _so much less _than the best of humanity."

Before anyone could think of anything to say, there was a clanking sound from down the hall, and no less than three dozen armed soldiers marched into the hall, blocking the exits in two neat, long lines of guns and armour.

"My sister!" The Alaya look-alike with the scar and red scales marched in with them, clearly leading. She looked at the orange-blanketed figure, and stepped over to kneel at her side. When she lifted the blanket, the noise she made was something the Poet never hoped to hear again. A quiet whimper, hoarse with sorrow, and a moan of utter loss that was almost physically painful to hear. The woman put the blanket back over Alaya's face.

"And you want us to trust these apes, Doctor?" She asked, voice contorted with grief and rage, as she looked up at said Time Lord.

"One woman." The Doctor held up a finger. "She was scared for her family. She is not typical."

"I think she is." The woman snarled, standing and twisting to look at Ambrose. She didn't even glance at the Poet; it was like through instinct, she knew.

"One person let us down," The Doctor was still trying to salvage the situation, pacing around a little as he spoke with passion. "But there is a whole race of dazzling, peaceful, human beings up there." There was a pause, and no one said a word. The expression of hopelessness on the Doctor's face as he knew the situation was lost, was heartbreaking. "Come on! You were _building _something here!"

"It's too late for that, Doctor." Ambrose cut in, voice wavering again. Tony ran a hand over his balding scalp, and this was not something the Poet missed.

"Why?" She asked them, dark brows furrowing. "What is it you've done?"

The human mother glanced with guilt at the Poet before responding. "Our drill is set to start burrowing again in," She checked a stopwatch, and her voice dropped to a whisper. "Fifteen minutes."

"_What?_" Nasreen voiced everyone's thoughts in a single word.

"What choice did I have?" Tony rasped. He was looking really very ill now; his skin was pallid, his eyes were bloodshot, and he was sweating like mad. "They had Elliot."

"Don't do this. Don't call their bluff." The Doctor insisted, looking around the room.

"Let us go back." Ambrose pleaded, her bargains directed at the Alaya woman. "Let us go back and promise never to come to the surface ever again! We'll walk away, leave you alone!"

The woman made a guttural, snarling noise at the back of her throat. "_Execute her!_" She roared, and all hell broke loose. The soldiers fired at Ambrose, but missed as the Doctor dashed forward and pulled her out of the way. The other humans ran in all directions. The Poet hurriedly ushered Alistair, Mo and Elliot to a doorway, taking out her sonic as she did so. She reached past the Doctor, and the Silurian's guns sparked wildly and dropped to the ground, whole rows being disarmed as both Time Lords fought off the approaching force.

"This is a deadly weapon; stay back!" The Doctor cried, and ducked around the Poet to get the soldiers behind them. They began backing toward the exit.

"Doctor, come—woah!" The Poet ducked as one of the Silurians had crawled along the stadium seats, and her reptilian tongue shot out to narrowly miss the Time Lady. "Come on!" He nodded, and they took off at a sprint down the corridor.

"Take everyone to the lab!" The Doctor cried, as he dropped back. Lasers shot them from around the corner, harmlessly dissolving into the wall. The Doctor stopped completely, his sonic still out.

"Doctor!"

"Go on, I'll cover you." At the Poet's stubbourn look, he waved her on urgently. "Go!"

"Come on, let's go!" She turned and waved Mo and Elliot along the corridor. They continued running until they reached the lab, a relatively small room. There was a crescent-shaped console near the back, and several areas that looked as though they had been meant for human dissection. "Nobody get comfortable!"

The Doctor came jogging in a moment later, and quickly soniced the door shut. "Elliot, you and your dad keep your eyes on that screen, let me know if we get company." He pointed to a screen that displayed different areas in the Silurian complex. "Amy, keep reminding me how much time we've got. Poet, you're with me." He tossed the woman the stopwatch, which she caught, and gestured for the Time Lady to follow him.

"Okay!" Amy peered at the clock. "Um, ah, twelve and a half minutes 'til drill impact."

"Tony Mack." The Doctor stepped over to the man, who was now breathing heavy and sitting, and tapped his head. "Sweaty forehead, dilated pupils. What are you hiding?" Tony opened his shirt to reveal that the green veins near his neck had now spread to all across his upper chest.

"Alaya's sting." Tony gasped. "She said there's no cure. I'm dying, aren't I?"

The Doctor peered at the results of his sonic, and moved over to the console to look at a small screen. "You're not dying, you're mutating."

"How can I stop it?"

"Decontamination program. Might work, don't know." He turned to the robed, elderly Silurian. "Eldane, could you run the program on Tony?"

"Doctor, shedload of those creatures coming our way!" Mo called from across the room. "We're surrounded in here!"

"So, question is, how do we stop the drill, given that we can't get there in time?" The Doctor asked, pacing around. "Plus, also, how do we get out, given that we're surrounded? Nasreen, how do you feel about an energy pulse, channeled up through the tunnels to the base of the drill?" The Poet casually looked over Amy's shoulder to check the time.

"To blow up my life's work?" The woman in question asked him.

"Yes. Sorry. No nice way of putting that."

"Right, well," Nasreen swallowed, as though the next few words were going to be hard to say—and they probably were. "You're going to have to do it before the drill hits the city."

"Which is in . . ."

"Eleven minutes, twenty seconds." Amy replied, her tone a strange mix of worried and snarky.

"Yes!" The Doctor clapped his hands together, now grinning from behind the console, down at the rest of the group. "Squeaky bum time!" The Poet snorted, but laughed and nodded all the same.

"Yes, but the explosion will collapse all the surrounding tunnels, so we'll have to be on the surface by then." Nasreen explained.

"But we can't get past Restac's troops."

"I can help with that." Eldane stepped out from one of the decontamination chambers where he had hooked up Tony. "Toxic fumigation. An emergency failsafe meant to protect my species from infection. A warning signal to occupy cryo-chambers. After that, citywide fumigation by toxic gas. Then, the city shuts down."

"You'd end up killing your own people." Amy realised quietly.

"Only those foolish enough to follow Restac."

"Eldane, are you really sure about this?" The Poet asked him seriously.

"My priority is my race's survival." He said to her. "The earth isn't ready for us to return yet."

"Ten minutes." Amy said quietly.

"No," The Doctor said suddenly, regarding Eldane's statement. "But maybe it should be. So, here's the deal. Everybody listening." He got down from behind the console and began walking around the room. "Eldane, activate the shutdown. I'll amend the system, set your alarum for a thousand years' time. A thousand years to sort things out, to be ready. Pass it on, as legend or prophecy or religion. Somehow, make it known." Here he turned to look pointedly at Ambrose. "This planet is to be shared."

"Yeah." Elliot said bravely, looking up at him. "I get you." The Doctor snapped and pointed at the boy, smiling before turning back to the console.

"Nine minutes, seven seconds." Amy warned.

"Poet, lend a hand?" The Doctor bounced up to the console, and they both began flicking coloured buttons and setting dials. "Yes, fluid controls, my favourite! Energy pulse, timed, primed and set."

"Ooh, before we go, better cancel out the energy barricade, quickly." There was a faint whirring as the Poet pointed her sonic screwdriver at the console, and one of the small screens showed the barricade vanishing.

"Fumigation pre-launching." Eldane informed them, as Rory jumped up to stand next to the Time Lords.

"There's much time for us to get from here to the surface, guys." He told them worriedly.

"A-ha!" The Doctor and Poet looked at each other and grinned. "Super squeaky bum time!" They said in unison, and then he Doctor spoke again. "Get ready to run for your lives. Now . . ."

"But the decontamination process on your friend hasn't started yet." Eldane pointed out, and everyone looked over to Tony, in the little chamber.

"Well, go!" He grunted, pushing himself off the platform he was laying back on to wave a hand at them. "All of you, go!" Elliot ran forward, and the family said their tearful goodbyes. The Doctor nodded at Eldane, who put his hand against a sensor pad. The lights went out, then back on, a green light flashing above them somewhere. An automated voice informed them of the imminent toxic fumigation, and for all the Silurians to return to their cryo-chambers.

"They're going." Amy said, looking at the screen. Everyone clustered over at the door, with the Doctor in front and the Poet picking up the caboose.

"Look for a blue box!" The Doctor said, and soniced open the door for everyone, before pushing his way back to talk to Eldane.

The Poet, seeing as no one was moving, clapped her hands a few times. "Go, go, everyone! Come on!" They took off at a sprint, tearing through the low corridors, past Silurians rushing to get in their cryo-chambers. Amy and the Poet, both of whom were in the back, noticed the Doctor wasn't coming. Amy turned, but the Poet shook her head. "No, go, Amy! I'll get him." The Time Lady went running back the way they had come.

"Doctor!" She gasped, skidding to a halt and taking a few gasping breaths. "Come on!" Said Time Lord was talking with Nasreen, who was looking at him a bit sadly.

"Thank you, Doctor." She said to him.

"The pleasure was all mine." The two hugged tightly, and the Poet spying him glancing at his watch. The Doctor pulled away, patted her shoulder, and started back with the Poet.

"Come and look for us." Nasreen called to them. The Gallifreians nodded at her, and then tore off once more through the tunnels, which led them, twisting and turning, out onto a long bridge of stone. Alistair was running at them, and even though she was sprinting, the Poet still managed to slap a hand to her forehead. After a few more seconds of running, they came to a small chamber, where a most welcome sight greeted the Poet—the Doctor's police box TARDIS.

"No questions, just get in and yes, I know it's big. Ambrose, sickbay up the stairs left, and left again. Get yourself fixed up. Come on!" He ushered all the humans into the TARDIS. "Five minutes and counting. Poet, could you help them out?" He asked, but began to trail off as the Time Lady hopped inside the TARDIS. She ran right into Mo's back, as he had stopped in shock, but quickly ushered them all along.

"Yes, yes, it's bigger on the inside, now let's get you up to sickbay." She made a beckoning gesture and started up the stairs, leading the awestruck family up. "Alistair, you can go relax in my TARDIS if you don't want to come to sickbay with us."

"That would be great, thanks!" He called gratefully up to her as they made the first left.

"This is so cool." Elliot said in amazement.

"What is this place?" Ambrose asked, looking around them as they turned into sickbay.

"It's a TARDIS. Time And Relative Dimensions In Space." The Poet said, gesturing for Ambrose to have a seat. "The machines that travel in time and space. Really, very brilliant in my opinion." She grinned at Elliot, who smiled back, as Ambrose took a shaking breath.

"But this isn't possible!" She gasped, still looking around the room.

"Oh, it's very possible." The Poet looked up as the TARDIS began whirring and shuddering. "You just haven't seen it yet." She grinned at the family and jumped up to sit on a table. "Questions?"

Elliot raised his hand, and the Poet pointed at him. "Um, why do you have this machine but no one else does? Are you from the future?" The last question was asked with a sort of childish excitement.

"Ah, yes and no." The Poet said, realising that the parents were listening as well. "I travel in time a bit, you see. Well, more than a bit, but, you know."

"What are you?" Ambrose asked, her tone almost accusatory, but also too weak to be taken seriously.

"I'm a Time Lord. Well, Time Lady." The Poet gave a little bow from where she sat. "Very old, very experienced, and a very good golfer."

"Very old?" Mo asked. "Why, you can't be more than in your—gah!" Everyone was thrown around a bit as the TARDIS came to a rough landing. The Poet jumped up from the floor and put her hat on, grinning at them.

"Land, ho!" She said, and they all dashed back the way they'd come.

"I have seen some things today, but this is beyond mad." Mo said to no one as they walked back down the stairs.

"Doctor, Poet," Amy said, looking at them. "Five seconds 'til it all goes up." There was a pause, and then everyone quickly scrambled to the door, falling outside just in time to see the drill, now far in the distance, explode with ground shaking force. A small ball of flame formed as the machinery crumbled apart, black smoke billowing into the air.

Alistair came stumbling out a few minutes later, as they started walking around the graveyard. He looked to the Poet, then to the column of smoke in the distance. "Aw-w-w!" He whined, and followed weakly after the Time Lady. "I missed the explosion, didn't I!" He sombered up as they walked along, and seemed to be thinking. He looked down at her feet, and then up a little at the graves.

"So, that's that, then!" he said, suddenly cheery, and leaned over. "Was the explosion good?"

The Poet laughed, then thought about it for a moment. "Yeah, it was a pretty good explosion. Though, to be fair, that was the complete demolition of someone's life's work, so." She shrugged. "Take that as you will."

They meandered around the church, and Alistair stopped for a moment to talk briefly with Amy. The Poet joined up with the Doctor, and they starting walking back to the TARDIS. "So, what now?" The Poet asked him.

"Rory . . ." He started, and looked over his shoulder to make sure Amy was otherwise occupied. "Rory got absorbed by the pure time energy from the _Byzantium."_

The Poet frowned and lowered her voice. "Just like that? The same crack and energy?"

The Doctor shook his head. "Restac survived the gas, followed us. She killed Rory, and the energy took him after that."

"Does Amy . . .?" The Poet's half-question was answered by a simple shake of the head. The Poet sighed, and then looked sharply over at the Time Lord next to her. "You better be very, very nice to her."

"Of course I'll be!" The Doctor said defensively. "I'm always nice to her! I'm nice to everyone."

"Oh, of course you are." The Poet smiled at him. "I'm going to let you two do that yourselves. Alistair needs a break after this, anyway."

"You're leaving?" The Doctor asked as they reached the TARDIS, the blue phone box weirdly out of place.

"Not forever, Doctor." The Poet assured him. "Can't lose you now I've found you! I'll be back soon." She winked at him as she entered the TARDIS, Amy and Alistair catching them up. "Stay in touch, and don't have too much fun without me!" She sang as she jumped into the box. "Come along, Donovan!" The Poet danced across the TARDIS lobby and jumped inside of her wardrobe, smiling at the sight of her beloved machine.

"Poet," Alistair started, but couldn't finish.

"You know, I think we should try for Venice again!" The Poet called, cranking levers and stabbing little buttons with her little finger. "Or, did you say Greece? That sounds good, too! How about—"

"Poet!" Alistair snapped, and then sighed. "I want to go home."

The Poet's shoulders slumped a little; her green eyes lost their glimmer of the promise of travel. "I understand."

"Oh, not forever!" Alistair chuckled and walked up to the console, sitting in his usual chair. "I just . . . I think you should meet somebody."

_I am on a ROLL! Great things next chappie! _


	10. Reflections

_I should probably write shorter chapters…_

_I don't know if any of you have ever eaten dragon fruit, but because it's really cool to look at and has a decent flavour, I imagine in the future at some point it goes extinct. It tastes a little bit like kiwi, kinda mild. So anyway, some light-heart stuff in the beginning, but beware. _

"_One must have a good memory to be able to keep the promises that one makes." -Friedrich Nietzsche_

_W'P_

"So, let's say about a week after you picked me up, yea?" Alistair suggested to the Poet, still sitting comfortably in his chair. The Poet glanced at him, but nodded in agreement and set the TARDIS on its course.

"Why a week?" She asked, leaning against the console. "I could bring you back just as we were leaving. That could get complicated, but I could do it."

"The way I figure, give them some time to wonder where I've gone." He stratagised. "Then, only a mere week later, boom. I'm back. Like _magic_." He wiggled his fingers as though casting a spell.

"We've gone over this. It's science." The Poet said, her tone exasperated. Alistair's reply was cut off as the TARDIS shuddered to a halt. The pair bounded over to the door and out, squinting at the sudden brightness of the sun. The Poet's TARDIS's chameleon circuit was a bit hit-or-miss, and to her amusement, it had changed into a modern day phone box. It had windows, but on the outside just looked like a regular phone box. Alistair grinned around and gave the Poet a thumbs-up. They were outside his flat on the pavement, at what looked like about the middle of the day. The Poet followed a few paces behind as Alistair ran to check a newspaper.

"All right!" He exclaimed. "Exactly a week later. Now," He pulled his mobile from his pocket and dialed in a number. The Poet waited patiently, looking around in mild interest. She glanced over at a bakery across the little street and observed her reflection, smirking and adjusting her tie. Just as she looked away, she caught something, a tiny flicker of odd motion. Instantly, she knew something was wrong. Her intuition said so, and that was one thing she trusted.

The Poet's concentration broke as the ginger beside her began talking. "Hey! Yeah, I know, I've been gone. Listen, you should stop by. Yes, now. Right now. Don't ask questions, there's someone I want you to meet. Okay. Thanks; you won't regret it. Okay. Love you, too." Alistair hung up with a grin.

"Am I meeting who I think I'm meeting?" The Poet asked with amusement, a dark eyebrow arching up.

"Yep." Alistair replied happily. "He lives just 'round the block, should be here any second." Before his sentence was finished, the Poet looked over his shoulder as a young man came walking around the corner. He was a little lanky, with a mess of dirty blond hair on his head. A dark hoodie advertising a local football team hung on his thin shoulders. He tapped Alistair on the shoulder when he was close enough, and the pair hugged gleefully.

"Ah, Poet." Alistair gestured to the man. "This is my boyfriend, ex-fiancé, Jonathan."

"Good to meet you, Jonathan." The Poet smiled and shook his hand, but her gaze was wandering a bit to the bakery window she had been looking in. "You can call me the Poet. I've heard great things, really a pleasure, can you excuse me for a moment?"

The Time Lady hopped off the curb and marched across the street, disregarding Alistair's groan of annoyance, and flicked her sonic screwdriver out from her inside pocket. Once at the window, she quickly scanned the glass for any traces of anything out of the ordinary. She sniffed the glass and, after a quick look around gave it a little lick. There was nothing unusual, which she ironically found suspicious. A moment later, Alistair and Jonathan were behind her again.

"Poet, what are you doing?" The former hissed under his breath.

"Nothing!" The woman spun around, smiling widely. "Wanted to, ah, check out the wares." She turned to glance at the pastries in the window before walking along back where they had come. "So, heard you two tried to get married, didn't work out?" Alistair flushed at the mention and glanced guiltily at Jonathan, who smiled at him. "You know, if you're having troubles, I could always marry you two. You did say you wanted to elope."

"What?" Alistair snapped to attention at the Poet's words. She turned around to face them and a mischievous grin began to crawl across her face.

"Well, yeah." She said casually. "Been around nine hundred years, give or take. It'd be a crime if I couldn't join two people in marriage at this point." She jerked a thumb at her red phone box. "I have a chapel. And there wouldn't be any troubles about families because we wouldn't technically be on Earth, so . . ."

The couple in front of her looked at each other. After a moment, they grinned, turned back, and nodded. The Poet laughed and pointed at them. "Away we go, then!" She opened the door to the box and ushered them in. With a final, suspicious glance around the street, she jumped in after them.

"Oh, my god." Jonathan's mouth hung open in shock. "This . . . oh my god . . . what is this?"

"A TARDIS." The Poet gestured for them to follow her down a ground-level corridor. "Very complicated, very interesting, and very, very, cool."

"Listen, Jon." Alistair muttered. "I haven't been missing that past week. I've been with the Poet, because, well . . . it's a time machine. I've been travelling in time."

"Hey, have some respect!" The Poet snapped. "This _time machine _is a highly sophisticated piece of technology that has, for your information, a veritable soul. Don't you, girl?" She called to the ceiling. The lights in the hall flashed in response. "See?"

"Wait, wait, wait." Jonathan stopped walking. "This is impossible. It's just . . . impossible. Have you drugged me, is that it?"

"Of course it's possible." The Poet stepped over to stare at him. "Just because you've never seen it, doesn't mean it's impossible. This is real, all of it, every molecule. Take a leap every once in a while, Jonathan." She smiled. "A leap of faith."

The man blinked and nodded a little. "I can't get married in this." He looked down at his casual clothes.

The Poet grinned in victory and continued down the hall, a new spring in her step. "Doesn't matter! We'll be the only ones there, so in my opinion, get married in whatever you want!" They turned another corner and the Poet pushed open a set of double doors to reveal a massive cathedral, complete with stained-glass windows that were shining with imitation sunlight.

"Whoa." The humans said in unison. The Poet had not yet brought Alistair to that wing of the TARDIS, and in fear of him getting irrevocably lost, forbade him to wander around on his own.

"Charming, isn't it?" The Poet chirruped, walking purposely forward. "It's a big overkill for our cavalier little ceremony, I think, but still rather nice." She reached the altar and waited patiently for the couple to reach her. "Okay, let's keep this simple, shall we? We are gathered here today to celebrate the joining of two _fantastic_ people in holy matrimony. Anyone have any rings?" She paused. "Not a problem. Anyway, by the power vested in me by several different people on no less than six planets, I now pronounce you to be wed."

Alistair and Jonathan smiled at each other and briefly kissed. The Poet applauded, being the only other one there, and jumped down. "And now, for a very unique reception."

"Oh, Poet, you don't have to do that." Alistair said as the now-married couple began to follow her.

"Yeah, I think we've already had a pretty unique wedding as it is." Jonathan laughed a little incredulously.

"I would be ashamed to call myself a good hostess if I didn't at least hold a reception . . . of some sort." The Poet flung open a door and ushered them through. The three walked down a few more halls before coming upon a more familiar room—the kitchen. It, like the rest of the TARDIS, was an odd mix of post-modern and classical aspects. The walls were shiny steel, but the flooring was hardwood. There were several futuristic machines that were meant specifically for cooking certain non-Earthly dishes right next to a wood-burning oven.

"Uh, why are we here?" Alistair asked.

"Because of secret rooms, that's why!" The Time Lady exclaimed and not-so-dramatically picked up a spatula. She flipped it over and pressed a tiny button on the back. As she did, a large panel of the wall sank in about an inch and smoothly slid out of the way, revealing an absolutely massive storage of food. The room stretched back for a good while, stuffed full with shelves of fruits, vegetables, snacks, biscuits, crisps—at least one of everything from as many planets as the Poet could collect from. Off the one side, there was a fridge that went up to the ceiling.

"Oh, my god." Alistair's face broke out in a gradual smile. "What is this place?"

"Ever wondered how I keep you fed?" The Poet asked with a knowing smirk. "Food stays good for a very, very long time. Can't really hold a proper reception, so here we are. Help yourself to anything for as long as you want."

"Seriously? I mean . . . this is a lot of food."

"Of course it is!" The Poet hopped over to one of the shelves and tossed something at the two. Jonathan caught it, fumbled and clamped his hands on it. "_Hylocereus undatus. _Commonly known on Earth as the dragon fruit. Ever had one? Can't imagine you have. They got very popular on Earth 'round the year 2015, overharvested and suddenly no more dragon fruit."

The fruit was deep pink with green scale-like triangles on the outside. The Poet brought out a large knife from a cutlery drawer in the regular kitchen and, with a wince, cut the fruit cleanly in half. The humans across from her made ooh-ing sounds at the inside, which was stark white with a million tiny black seeds. The Poet grinned and handed them each a half.

"I'd like to stick around, but I'm afraid I have something to attend to." She smiled and pointed at them with the hilt of the knife. "Eat, drink, and be merry. I won't be long."

She left the kitchen to the sounds of the couple's curious exclamations on the alien foods, and quickly made her way back to the lobby. The Time Lady felt a little guilty for distracting them like that, but she needed to do some investigating without them for a moment. Some time had passed outside, and the light had changed, but everything was obviously the same as before.

Frowning around the quiet street, the Poet sniffed the air in suspicion. She licked a finger and stuck it up as though testing for wind, paused, and nodded. The evening was cool and eerily silent. Not just summer-evening silence, either—the silence that really gets in one's ears, ringing and making its own sort of noise. There was no one talking, no one walking on the pavement, no cars, and no sound. It was quiet enough that she could hear the air sighing in and out of her nose, and the four-beat rhythm of her double heartbeat. The memory of her and the Doctor leaving Venice, and hearing the sudden silence that had been there, too, suddenly occurred to her.

The Poet's eyes slid over to the bakery again, mouth creasing a little in thought. She looked back at the disguised TARDIS, bouncing on her heels, before decisively marching over to the window. It was the same as before, though a bit harder to look at, as the sun was setting to reflect on it. The Time Lady observed her reflection again, still frowning in concentration. Something was wrong, very wrong; her intuition had never let her down before. It was something she had seen earlier, a little quirk that she couldn't quite—

The Poet cried out and stumbled back from the window, her hearts beating rapidly. In a second, her sonic was out of her pocket, but she was too late. There was nothing for the screwdriver to pick up. She noticed her hands were shaking a little from surprise, and balled them up into fists. Now she had a suspicion and a few theories, but it needed further investigation. Hurrying back to the TARDIS, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched.

Because while she had been frowning at the window, her reflection had smiled back.

-o-

"Hey, Poet, I don't know what this is," Alistair called as she walked into the food room to discover the both of them on the floor, surrounded in all manner of things. The ginger was speaking through a mouthful of food, his cheeks puffed out like a squirrel. In his hand was a perfect yellow sphere that had a large bite out of it, oozing green liquid that he was struggling to keep from spilling. "But it's just great!"

"Sorry, you pair, but I think Jonathan needs to stay around for a bit longer." The Poet said, quickly putting some of the food back on the shelves.

"What? Why?" Alistair glanced over at his husband and hurriedly covered up his tracks. "I mean, that's great, but why?"

"Don't know yet." The woman ran a hand through her hair, eyes flicking back and forth, seeing things the others weren't yet privy to. "Lingering pollen fumes? Doubt it, I'd know by now. Hallucinations? Possibly. Had those before, though, troublesome but different than this. I mean, can't have people wandering around, it could be a war zone out there!"

"Poet!" Alistair snapped, and seemed to break her out of her muttering train of thought.

The Poet looked over to Jonathan. "Jonathan, has there been anything out of the ordinary around here this past week? Anything at all?"

"Like . . . what?" He asked, standing up. "I mean, there were a couple disappearances. Police don't have much of a lead, though; they were all pretty random. Um, lemme think. Ms Scott's cat had a two-tailed kitten a couple weeks ago . . . hey, where are you going?"

The Poet had already spun around and was tearing back though the TARDIS, bounding through the halls to the lobby. She did a quick three-sixty, like the quick change of scenery had disoriented her, then dashed over to a small alcove where a chest was sitting. She flung open the lid and began rifling through it, miscellaneous paraphernalia crashing as she looked for one simple object—a hand mirror. She grabbed it and peered closely at herself, not making a single change to her expression. Neither did the reflection.

Jumping to her feet, the Poet ran outside and looked in the mirror, again keeping her face as monotone as she could. After about forty-five seconds, her reflection grinned widely back at her own blank face. The Poet grinned like the reflection, and instantly, the mirror-Poet's expression turned to one of shock.

"Interesting." The real Poet breathed, glancing behind her as the door opened and Alistair and Jonathan came stumbling out. "No, no, no, get back in there! That's the point!" She tried ushering them back in, but both of them stood steadfast.

"Poet, stop! We want to help!" Alistair grunted, pushing back.

"Ugh, stubborn humans!" The woman cried, throwing her hands up. "Fine, here, if you want to help, smile!" She thrust the mirror out, and Alistair grinned at himself without question. After a few seconds, he yelped and flinched away, grabbing Jonathan's arm.

"Agh!" He cried. "That was . . . oh, god, what the _bloody _hell was that?"

"Not sure." The Poet muttered to the mirror. "It's everything reflective, I think." She looked over at a newspaper stand and grabbed one of the papers, eyes scanning over the text at an inhuman pace. The paper rustled absurdly loudly in the silent street as she crunched through the articles. After a couple pages, she exclaimed, "A-ha!"

The other two hurried over to look at the text over her shoulder. It read: _"More Mysterious Disappearances; Police At A Loss"_

"I need to check something." The Poet murmured. She jerked her head at Alistair. "Back in the TARDIS, both of you." She looked around, back in her mirror, and then turned to follow them. Once back in the TARDIS, she turned a few dials and pulled the big switch, launching them off. The machine shook, as it was oft to do, before settling down once again.

"Where are we?" Jonathan asked, stepping out behind the Poet. They had landed on a beach, the TARDIS now disguised as a white-and-red-striped changing tent. Dozens of people were out on the sand, laughing and playing in the water, or reading a book on a towel. A rainbow of umbrellas were scattered across, casting circles of shade on the lazing beach-goers. The sound of waves rushing against the off-white sand accompanied the murmur of people giggling, splashing in the water, and talking amongst themselves.

"California, four seconds from where we were. Don't get your hopes up, we aren't staying long." The Poet, looking very out of place in her suit, walked up to the nearest person she saw: a young woman lying on her stomach, her legs in the sun and her torso under a large, pink umbrella. A pair of large sunglasses sat on her sharp nose. Her hair was very clearly bleached blond. "Excuse me!"

The girl lifted her head, and a brunette eyebrow raised in disdain. She lifted her sunglasses to expose eyes heavy with too much make-up for the beach. "What?" She sneered, looking the Poet up and down. "You need something, or are you just gonna stand there?"

"Yes, ah, do you have a newspaper on hand?" The Poet reached into her pocket and brought out her wallet, which was empty, and contained just a piece of psychic paper. "Bureau of Newspaper Investigation and . . . other stuff."

The girl peered at the "blank" psychic paper before sneering back up. "I've never heard of Newspaper Investigation." She said suspiciously.

"We're a very new branch, just opened up back in London. So, newspaper, please?"

The girl sighed huffily. "Ugh. Do I _look_ like I have a newspaper on me?"

The Poet paused, thrown off a little by the question. "Er . . . yes?"

After a short pause, the woman rolled her eyes, reached into her beach bag and pulled a copy out. "Here. I don't usually buy them because they are _so, _like, boring and out of style. But with everything going on, I thought I should stay in touch, ya know? I don't like, like reading, but that's some scary stuff."

The Poet wasn't listening. She was flipping wildly through the rustling gray pages, reading quickly, before stopping at the article she was looking for. It had a very similar headline to the one back in England, again stating that several people had disappeared in only a few days, and the police had no leads or any idea what to do. The Poet looked up and around, thinking hard, and gave the paper back to the girl.

"Thank you." She said graciously and tipped her hat before spinning around and running back to the TARDIS, sand flying up behind her. "Come on, boys! One more stop. Ah, two." She pushed Alistair and Jonathan back inside. The TARDIS took off without the console being touched; sometimes it was easier to pilot it automatically.

"Poet, what are we doing?" Alistair asked the pacing Time Lady. She was hardly paying attention anymore. Something was going on, and she would be damned if she didn't find out what it was. "Does it have to do with the mirror thing?" There was a long pause, almost awkward.

"Uh, yeah," The Poet finally realised she had been asked a question, and continued in and equally distracted manner. "Yeah, the . . . the reflections." The TARDIS came to a halt, and the Poet leapt over to the door, crashing out in her hurry. This time, they were in the middle of a city. Skyscrapers towered above them, leaning into the sky with steel and glass fingers. People bustled on the streets, suffocating the pavement. The noise of people talking was deafening compared to the California beach.

Alistair was out of the TARDIS second, and began coughing as the Poet looked around. "Ugh, this place is all smoggy!" He muttered, also observing their surroundings. "Okay, so, we're somewhere in China."

"It's Hong Kong, actually." Jonathan piped up, looking around curiously. "I came here on holiday once." The Poet walked up to the nearest person, a businessman who didn't look all that rushed, and began speaking perfect Chinese. She asked about any unexplained disappearances that had been happening lately.

"She speaks Chinese?" She heard Jonathan mutter behind her.

"She speaks everything." Alistair replied. "Even Jadoon. _Especially _Jadoon. Now _that'_s a weird language, but she really likes it for some reason."

"Yes, now that you mention it, I _have_ been seeing a lot less of a few people lately." They quieted down as the businessman spoke, his tone thoughtful. "Oh, and the news said something about it last night. Funny, I never really noticed until you pointed it out."

"People usually don't." The Poet replied quietly, switched back to English. She raised her voice. "Alistair, Jonathan, get back in the TARDIS. Now." She went back to Chinese and thanked the man for his time, before following the other two into her TARDIS, which was again a wardrobe.

The Poet manually directed the time machine back a few destinations, thinking deeply and not saying a word as she worked. A deep frown creased her brow as she leaned over the controls, her nails clacking gently against the glass. The gentle whirring of the TARDIS hummed in the tense air. After another few seconds of silence, she spoke. "Okay, you pair." She turned to the perplexed couple. "I need to do some sleuthing, but you need to remain here. Understand me? Do _not_ follow me outside."

"Why?" Jonathan asked. "I mean, I was just out there like an hour ago."

"A lot can change in an hour." The Poet walked to the door, grabbing her hand mirror on the way, and paused with it half-open. Her gaze scanned sternly over the humans. "Don't follow me."

Stepping out of the box, now red again, she was perturbed to find that the streets were still silent as the grave. Taking a moment to confirm that no one was outside, the Poet looked down in the mirror. Her reflection looked back, and then smiled again. The non-mirror Poet sat down on the curb, warily watching her other self. A thought occurred to her, and she reached into her jacket to bring out a little pad of paper and pen. She held it up to the smiling reflection, who brought out an identical set.

Nodding, the Poet set the mirror on her knees and quickly scratched a single word down in small, square script: _Hello. _

The mirror-Poet, still smiling, wrote something and faced the paper out, at the real Poet. _Hello. _Their handwriting was identical.

Frowning, the Time Lady wrote again. _What is your name?_

The other Poet wrote down their real name in Gallifreian, her smile forming into a mocking grin, and then scribbled something underneath it: _You are me._

_No, I am me. You are something else._

_Yes, we are._

_What are you?_

_I am you. We are all._

The Poet sighed in frustration. She never liked riddles. _Are you __just__ me? You're what's causing all the disappearances, aren't you? What can I call you?_

_We are the Others. _The reflection's smile began to fade. _We need more._

_More what?_

The Other Poet sneered and furiously wrote on the paper before shoving it at the mirror. _More food._

"Hey, this is kinda cool!" A voice snapped the Poet's attention away from her mirror. Jonathan was standing a bit away, waving at a large window of a shop a few metres from the TARDIS. Alistair was also grinning, standing next to his partner. "It's like I'm saying hi to an identical twin I never knew existed! Hi, alternate me!"

"Jonathan, stay away from the windows!" The Poet scrambled up, running toward her companions. She wasn't sure what was happening yet, but it wasn't going to be good.

"What?" He laughed, turning to face her and stopped waving. Alistair was grinning as well, laughing and making faces at his other self. "I mean, what's the worst that could happen?"

A hand, slender and porcelain white, smoothly reached out the reflection, wrapped long fingers around his arm, and pulled him sharply into the window.

Alistair stared disbelievingly, his mouth open a little in shock. The Poet came to a skidding halt next to him and snatched out her sonic, waving it across the glass. It was completely unscathed, like nothing had happened. She sighed in disappointment as the sonic brought up no unusual results, again.

"Jon . . ." Alistair breathed. A few long seconds of shocked silence passed. He turned to the Poet, his expression seething. "Bring him back."

"I will, I will, I just . . . I don't know . . ." The Poet sighed again and then yelled and kicked the wall in frustration. "Agh, ow!"

"Bring him back, Poet." Alistair demanded again. "You bring everyone back. That's how it works. Everyone lives."

"Not always, okay!" The Poet cried, more out of anger with herself than with her friend. "I can't save everybody! I don't know how, yet, but I'll get him back! Just give me, I don't know, ten seconds! I'm not magical, Donovan!" She put a thumb and forefinger to her temple and let out a long breath, walked away a few steps and then came back. "I'm sorry. I'll help him. I promise you, I'll get Jonathan back."

"Yeah, well, you've promised me things before." Alistair stepped close to her, jaw clenched. "Remember? Rule one: _you lie._"

-o-

"So, what have we got so far?" The Poet was pacing agitatedly around the TARDIS console, rubbing her hands together with burning force. Alistair was sitting in his chair, elbows on his knees, and hands clenched with worry in the roots of his hair. "Someone, some_thing, _is kidnapping people from around the world. Through mirrors, reflections, anything that reflects oneself. Now, they aren't taking everyone, why not? Alistair, any suggestions?"

She threw out an arm and stopped walking for a moment to point at the young man. He looked up, eyes tired and drawn out. After a few seconds, he gave a slow shrug. "Uh . . . I don't know. It takes a few seconds to notice that you're not matching the reflection. Does that have anything to do with it?"

"My theory exactly." The Poet began pacing again, undoing the button of her jacket and waving her hands to accompany her speech. "You don't notice right away, it takes a minute. Someone notices that they're being watched, and the Others take them. Speaking of which, that's not quite a proper name, is it? Ah, well. So, so, so, so . . . where was I?"

"People being taken." Alistair mumbled into his hands.

"Oh, right! Okay, so, that's one theory. But it has raised questions, such as! One: why didn't they take me? Suggestions, Donovan, go!"

"You're . . . not . . . human?" He asked dully.

"Good thinking, once again. I say, worry suits your mental operations. Sorry, uncalled-for. Now! Two: how are they getting to us? Interesting one, I would take a guess at _very specific_ calculations to concentrate a _very specific_ wormhole of some sort onto this planet, through both time and space with a one-sided mirror effect. Tricky things, those. Not easy to make, even harder to manage without losing some limbs or mental capacities. An intriguing theory, but however, there's nothing to support it." The Poet stopped pacing for a moment and lowered her voice, her tone coloured in dark concern. "And finally, the most disconcerting variable of this entire situation: what do they want? The Other me said something about food. Are they invading? Are they visiting? Are they—"

Alistair's head jerked up. "Food? _Food?" _He asked incredulously, standing. "They want _food?_ Jesus, Poet, will it kill you to tell me anything? Why not just follow Jon to wherever he went?"

"They don't _want_ me. I can try, but so far they aren't interested and I can't put you in danger. Agh!" The Poet clenched her teeth and shook her fists in frustration. "Why can't anything ever be _simple_?"

Alistair threw up his hands. "Fine. Either we go in after him, or I'm going by myself." He began to stomp over to the door.

"Woah, woah, woah." The Poet vaulted over a banister and ran around to hop in front of Alistair. "You aren't going anywhere dangerous without me along with you, Donovan—especially not through possible wormholes in space."

Alistair sighed impatiently. "Fine. Are you coming, then?"

"Well, I mean, I sure will _try, _but I don't know if it will _work._" The Poet mused indecisively, and after another moment of weighing the pros and cons, she nodded to herself and straightened her jacket. Rolling her neck, she stated, "Let's go, Donovan."

"Aren't you going to grab any weapons?" He asked as they stepped out of the TARDIS. The Poet snapped her fingers as they walked, locking the door behind them. "What if those things attack us?"

"You should know I don't arm myself." The Poet said over her shoulder. "And anyway, even if I wanted to—which I don't—there aren't any weapons in the TARDIS. I think our best strategy is hope they let us in and don't attack us on sight."

"Oh, great." Alistair muttered.

"Hey, cheer up." The Poet chirruped as they arrived at the window where Jonathan had vanished. "This is great. Never had an adventure like this before. Pulled into reflections? Brilliant stuff." She spun and snapped her heels together, staring intently at the glass. "Just stay calm."

A few moments passed before her reflection changed, but it was definitely faster this time. The Other Poet frowned, quirking her head as though to ask a question. The real Poet nodded back at herself. The reflection looked over at Alistair's Other self, who was grinning with a mad frenzy. He reached out and, as his hands left the mirror to become three-dimensional, lost their human looks. His wrists were long and smooth, like plastic, without any jutting bones or wrinkled knuckles. His fingers were long, a good six inches each, and lacked fingernails. The skin was startlingly white, like snow. The alien hands wrapped around both of Alistair's upper arms and pulled. Alistair's yelp of terror was cut off as his entire body sank into the window like it was water.

The Poet only just had time to look back at her Other self before she, too, was yanked sharply forward, and her vision was blinded by light.


	11. The Blank Planet

_I love getting reviews from you guys; it's really just lovely to read your feedback. So, I'd like to thank AKs-on-show, Citizenofwhoville123, Gwilwillith and Signora Ted for their brilliant reviews! __**IN PARTICULAR**__ I would like to thank __**TheGirlWhoImagined, Jordanna96**__, and __**Cetacea-of-time**__ for their repeated, really great reviews that help keep me going and inspired! Thank you all! It's a real pleasure, and you can be sure I'll keep on writing even if it's just for you few. _

"_If a friend is in trouble, don't annoy him by asking if there is anything you can do. Think up something appropriate and do it." -Edgar Watson Howe_

_W'P_

The Poet gasped, her breath feeling like it had been sucked out of her completely. The entire world was white at present, including the surface she was crumpled against, so she didn't bother looking around. Her nails clawed against a smooth surface, grasping at nothing, as she waited for her lungs to respond to the change of atmosphere. Worry struck her like a slap; the air was no longer oxygen. She wouldn't have a problem with it under normal circumstances—she often spent free time "swimming" around in space with nothing on but her normal suit. However, Alistair could not do that. He was not from Gallifrey. If there was no oxygen . . .

After calming down, the Poet pushed herself up and gave her ribcage a little smack. "Come on, lungs, you've handled worse." She tugged her hat down tight on her head and began to actually take in where she was.

The room was a massive cube, and the Poet was right in the center of it. It was white, all of it, to a degree that almost made the walls glow. There was nothing in it, not even a door. There were not even any corners, as the walls sloped into each other.

The Poet turned around and saw a thin shimmer suspended in the air; she assumed it was the surface that connected to the window on Earth. She looked up at the high ceiling, then down at the floor. She tapped her toe against it. A few seconds passed, and she sprinted off to the wall in front of her, leaving a black scrap on the flawless ground from her shoe. The Poet stopped at the wall and scanned it with her sonic.

She slammed her hand against the smooth surface and glanced at the results of the scan. "Alistair? Donovan, you there? Alistair!"

A clanking of movement made the Poet suck in a breath and spin around, waving her screwdriver defensively. Her gaze was drawn up to a circle in the ceiling sliding away. A white sphere descended into the room, slowly hovering down to the floor to settle at the black mark from the Poet's shoe. It sprouted a white brush and tiny hose, which it used to quickly and efficiently clean away the mark. The ball, still cleaning, began to move toward the Poet. It came closer and closer until it was only a few inches away from her feet, and then retracted its cleaning materials and, without a sound, flew away into the ceiling, which closed up.

Before the Poet could begin to think about the curious sphere, something hissed directly behind her. She hopped away and watched the wall slid out to create a doorway much taller than her, and only about a couple hand's lengths wide. Framed in the white doorway was a very tall, thin figure. It was a good few heads higher than the Poet, who was not a short person. It stepped into the room, gracefully striding forward. Its feet did not have toes, but were rather thin, pointy nubs at the end of its legs. It did, however, have weirdly human hands. The most unnerving feature of all was actually its lack of them. The being, as smooth and pale as the room, did not have a face.

"Oh, hello." The Poet said, grinning widely, like a person welcoming a guest. "Was just wondering where you've brought me to, see, I had a couple other friends and I was just about to ask where they might have gone off to?"

"We have the humans." The voice was a soft hiss, like leaves rustling. It clearly came from the being in front of the Poet, but it had no mouth with which to speak. The voice was neither male nor female. It was simply there.

"I want them back." The Poet said. "In fact, would you mind giving me back every human who you have taken?"

"The humans are ours now." The Other rasped.

"Why?" The Poet frowned. "One of you said you needed food. What are you, what's happening that you need to eat humans?"

"We are starving."

"Yeah, I get that much." The Time Lady snapped. "Listen, I want the people you have kidnapped, so, for fear of sounding cliché, take me to your leader."

The Other did not reply for a few seconds. "You are not human."

"Good job."

"Why are you here, un-human?"

"I've made this clear. I want the humans you have." The gears clicked, and the Poet's mouth dropped open a little. "You're the one who's been with me."

"Yes."

"Please, let me talk to your king, queen, governor, anyone. I want to negotiate—I want to help you!"

There was another long pause, in which the Other being seemed to be regarding her. "Very well."

The slender being stepped back through the door, not bothering to see if the Poet was following. It smelled strange outside the room, a bitterly sweet stench that burned into the Poet's nostrils. The corridor was just as square and white as the cell that the Poet had been in, and stretched for a good while before curving off in two directions. The Other led her down the right, which ended abruptly. Another door slid open, again very thin. The Poet stepped in sideways, holding her hat to her side as she went through. On the other side, she found herself crammed uncomfortably close to the Other that had been replicating her. It emitted the same odd, sick smell as the rest of the building.

"Ooh, ah, sorry." The Poet muttered, pressing against the wall. "Just let me . . . yeah." There was a long, somewhat awkward silence, and she realised she must be in some sort of lift.

A few moments later, another thin door opened up to reveal an enormous hall that stretched back a good kilometre. Several thin windows were at the top of the room, letting in beams of bright yellow sunlight. At the far end, a figure was sitting sternly in a smooth throne. The Poet looked back at the Other that was with her, who stepped around the Poet and then off to the side, clearly meaning for her to go ahead.

"Thank you." The Poet nodded as she turned to face it. "And I'll try my best to help. What can I call you?"

The Other cocked its head to the side. "We do not possess names. Only does our Queen." It paused. "But you may address me as Sh."

The Poet grinned. "Good to meet you, Sh. Please keep my human friends safe while I try to help you."

Sh nodded once, a slow bow of its head, before stepping back into the lift and vanishing. The Poet took a deep breath, straightened her suit, and began walking down the hall. As she walked, she contemplated what the "Others" might really be. She had not encountered anything such as them before. It seemed their race was suffering some sort of food crisis, and had for some reason turned their attention to Earth and humans as food.

The Poet chanced a look over her shoulder and started a little in surprise. Another one of the scrubbing spheres was following right at her heels, cleaning away right at her feet. She furrowed her brow, but brushed it off and continued on. Once she was a few metres away from the figure in the chair, she stopped and stood there awkwardly for a moment.

She cleared her throat. "Er, excuse me, your Highness? My name's the Poet, I'm here on behalf of—"

"I know why you are here." The Queen spoke loudly and with clear authority, starkly contrasting Sh. She, unlike the other Others, looked distinctly more human. Her features were very sharp and angular, all high cheekbones and piercing eyes. A round circlet rested on her hairless head, just a plain white ring. The Poet noticed that everything was white on that planet.

"Your Highness, I do not wish to impose upon you, but I would ask of you to return the humans you have taken from Earth back to their planet, unharmed." The Poet requested humbly.

"I already said that I know why you are here . . . Time Lord." The Queen rose from her throne and stepped down the stairs to stand at the Poet's level. "And I am afraid that I cannot help you. Many of those who have been taken have been made into our nutrition already."

Disappointment crashed down around the Poet like icy water. She ran a hand down her face and pressed her palm to her mouth. What if Alistair was . . . she didn't want to think about it. After a moment, she asked, "What about the people you took? A man came here with me today, and another some time before him. Are they safe?"

"I do not know." The Queen answered. "I cannot account for all of our food's safety." She looked to her left, and an Other was suddenly there, melted from the very walls. There were two collar-like flairs around its arching neck, possibly symbolising a higher rank in society than Sh.

It bowed its blank head in reverence. "What would you ask of me, my Queen?" The hissing, rustling voice was a little higher than Sh's, and he Poet wondered if this one was female.

"Tk, inquire after the Time Lord's companions and assure that they are not harvested like the others." She demanded.

"Yes, my Queen." After another slow bow, Tk turned and entered another narrow door.

"Ah, your Highness, you seem to be a bit more . . ." The Poet waved her hands. "In the know than your subjects. Would you mind telling me what you're doing kidnapping humans?"

"Very well, Time Lord." The Queen said, and gestured to another door that opened. "Walk with me, and I will show you." They started down the hall, the Queen's dress billowing like a cloud behind her. "For many centuries, our race has thrived here. This is our home planet, Minerine. You see, my people are a, for lack of a better term, very sanitary species. In their attempts to be as sterile as possible, they inadvertently began to destroy our fields." She gestured to a wall, and it slid away to reveal a long window that stretched down the corridor. The Poet looked out in horror at a colossal plain, dead and brown, that stretched all the way to the horizon. A gust of wind, silent behind the glass, blew dry branches and flakes of leaves up into the sky.

"Couldn't you have stopped this?" The Poet asked.

"No. Believe me, Time Lord, when I say that if I could have prevented this, I would have." The Queen spoke over her shoulder. "Due to the distance of our planet from Earth, and from our sun, time passes quiet differently here. Though, I am sure you are quite knowledgeable on the passage of time."

"Better than most."

"Because of this difference, a few seconds on your Earth is much longer here on Minerine. I have been ruler of my planet for many decades." The Queen swept down another hall, and the floor turned to a sloping downward ramp.

"So, how did this drought come to exist?" The Poet looked back at the little cleaning sphere again. "Can't you just plant more food?"

"Alas, the soil is toxic." The Queen replied, her tone somber. "The Minerinites attempted their planetary cleansing before I came into power. Incidentally, this incident also brought about the death of my predecessor. Nothing alive can tread outside, which, unfortunately, only reinforces my subjects' strong desire for cleanliness in my palace. The toxins from the earth pollute the air, and our closeness to our sun does not provide better conditions.

"In the relative genesis of our final days outside the palace, severe panic began to beset my people. We clutched for a supply of life, which, if harvested, would provide nutrition for us in satisfying proportions. The first planet we found was Earth."

"Is there any way I can help you?" The Poet asked as the women stopped in the white corridor.

"I'm afraid not, Time Lord." The Queen glanced to her side, and a door opened next to her. Far down the hall, another one opened as well. "Your friends are safe. Take them and leave." Her white eyes stared coldly at the Time Lady across from her. "Do not linger. Should you do so, I will be forced to treat you and your companions as nothing more than free range nutrition. Fare well, Time Lord." With a proud ruffling of white, the Queen spun around and drifted back from where they had come.

"Wait, your Highness!" The Poet cried. The Queen did not respond, and continued away. The Poet sighed and turned back to the two doors that had opened. She peered in the closest one and grinned ecstatically. "There you are, Donovan!" She exclaimed.

"Ugh . . ." Alistair rubbed his forehead, eyes crunched shut. His mop of ginger hair was mussed over his eyes. "Boy, that was one bloody mad trip. Where are we?"

"A planet called Minerine." The Poet patted his back affectionately as he stepped out of the thin door. "We have some more things to do, so let's grab Jonathan and get to it."

"Jon? Where is he?" When the Poet pointed to the door, Alistair was off in a flash. The little cleaning ball was having a positive fit, and another popped out of the wall to account for both of them. The Poet walked over to the couple, who were happily reuniting.

"I hate to interrupt, but we have rather pressing things to take care of." She pointed down the hall.

"Oh, god, don't tell me we're going to run. We're _always _running." Alistair groaned.

The Poet scoffed as they began walking, albeit briskly, down the way she had come with the Queen. "Please, Donovan. We're in a royal palace. I have _some _class."

They made their way back through the halls, the cleaning balls following them adamantly. The Poet could hear Jon and Alistair talking quietly behind her. They fell silent when passing by the long window that looked over the dead earth, and didn't speak again as they entered the throne room. The Queen was sitting on her throne again and turned her head to watch them enter.

"I believed I had made I clear that I no longer wish to trouble myself with you." She intoned icily.

"Right, yep, I know, but hear me out." The Poet held up her hands in a show of good faith. "I'm a Time Lord, right? So, I have a TARDIS. With some time, I can help your planet."

"There is nothing you can do for us." The Queen's voice, which normally had a authoritarian tone to it, grew almost angry. "Leave, or I shall make you."

"Your Highness, I can't continue to let you take people from Earth." The Poet's voice rose to match the Queen's. "Earth is under my protection, and the protection of another Time Lord. By order of Article Sixty-Four of the Shadow Proclamation, you are forbidden to kill the population of a Level Five planet. So, either you let me help you, or things could get a lot worse."

The Queen seemed to consider what had been said. There was a long silence, longer than was comfortable. The Poet looked back at Alistair, who looked over at Jonathan, who looked to the Poet, who gave a little shrug and turned her attention back to the Queen. Another few moments of silence passed.

The Poet looked to the side of the hall. A couple dozen thin doors had opened all along the room, and two Minerinites stepped out of each. The Poet looked back up to the Queen, her voice now urgent. "Your Highness, please, let me help you! You don't have to do this!"

"I'm afraid I do." She murmured, and then the Queen's voice rose to a cry. "_Guards!_ Subdue the Time Lord and her accomplices!"

"Run!" The Poet turned and the three took off at a sprint, dodging the snatching hands of the Minerinites. "Come on, come on!" She ducked and rolled away from a grabbing figure, stumbling back up to usher Alistair and Jonathan through the door. They stopped; the lift wasn't opening. The Poet pushed them toward a steep ramp off to the side. "Go, that way!"

The group scampered down the switchback-ing ramp, sliding and falling on the smooth surface. There were quiet, almost inaudible thumps above them as hoards of Minerinites pursued them. Alistair and Jonathan were on flat ground first, and waited a moment for the Poet to join them and lead. The Time Lady ran down a corridor, back to the "dungeon" that she had occupied earlier. Something clamped around her arm and pulled, making her yelp in surprise and stumbled to the side.

"Quiet." The Poet recognised the Other's voice to be that of Sh's. "In here." He stepped aside to let them into the room and the door vanished behind them. The little thumps went rolling past.

The Poet let out a breath of relief. "That was close." She smiled and looked up at Sh. "Thank you, Sh."

"You are welcome." Sh pointed, his long arm stretching out to indicate the controlled wormhole back to earth. "Go. They will find us."

The two humans eagerly marched over to the shimmering rectangle in the air. Their hands wound together, and with only another moment of hesitation, jumped through and vanished. After watching them leave, the Poet turned to look up at the Minerinite. "Why are you doing this?"

"We do not all carry such loyalty for our Queen." Sh explained. "I, and two other of my kind, attracted your attention." He slowly bent down to kneel at the Poet's level, and though his face remained blank, the Poet got the distinct impression that Sh was staring at her. "Help us."

The Poet nodded. "I will. I need to get back to Earth, and then I swear, I will help you." She smiled before turning to the wormhole. She took a running start and, holding her hat, leapt through.

-o-

"That was actually pretty fun." Alistair concluded, dusting himself off. "I mean, considering all of our near-death encounters, that was actually really scenic."

"We've got work to do." The Poet grabbed their hands and pulled them toward the TARDIS. "They need help, we have it. Now, into the box, both of you." She ran over to her console and fell to her knees, opening a panel in the floor. "Now, our dear friend the Doctor is probably off doing something at the moment and so, I could do this myself but unfortunately I've grown a bit accustomed to driving with two instead of one and this is a big job."

She reached into the removed metal plating, from which an azure blow was shining like a small sun. The Poet's face glazed over with momentary pleasure, experiencing brief but total Zen with the machine that was hers. With a wince of regret, she pulled her hand from the TARDIS and clenched her fist. Tiny wisps of blue light trailed from her eyes as she stood.

"Okay," She breathed, and stepped over to Alistair. She took a moment to move the huon energy to one hand, shaking her arm to shift the glowing energy. "Open wide."

"What?" Alistair laughed incredulously. "That's the heart of the TARDIS. It'll kill me!"

"Normally, yes, it would." The Poet said. "But luckily for you, it's entering you through me, so I suggest opening your mouth because it's starting to hurt my hand."

After a moment of indecision, Alistair obediently opened his mouth. The Poet held her finger a few inches above his head, and tendrils of blue light fell from her hand and sank into Alistair, through his open mouth and eyes. His irises glowed for a moment, and then died back to their traditional colour.

"Whoa." He muttered, and looked around the TARDIS with new eyes. "That's mad, that's absolutely mad. Is this how you always see things in here?"

"Yes. Now, we need to save a planet, probably a couple of planets. Help me with this." The two rushed to the console, navigating the TARDIS out to Minerine. "We need to set the distance to pull with great prejudice, or we could very well kill everyone on Minerine."

"And we should deploy the suction to siphon the toxins from the first few layers of the surface." Alistair flicked a few switches back and forth.

"Donovan, you would make an excellent Time Lord." The Poet said, cranking a lever at about her knee level. She dialed some commands into the console. "Almost as fun as piloting with the Doctor." She grinned and snapped her fingers, and the launch lever yanked itself down. "And not nearly as good as me."

The TARDIS jerked wildly, and all three present grabbed onto something. "So, what are we doing?" Jonathan called over the noise of the time machine.

"Being amazing!" The Poet cackled. "Watch and learn!" The TARDIS came to an abrupt, jerking halt. The group was thrown forward, tumbling down as the TARDIS continued moving, though much slower. "Towing a planet! Brilliant stuff, really great."

"Why are you towing a planet?" Jonathan asked, pulling himself to his feet.

"We're not taking it far." The Poet said with a gasp, leaning against the console. "The Queen said that the planet was a little too close to their sun. So, we pull it a ways away, and we're hoping it will help support life."

The TARDIS stopped and released Minerine. "Ooh, good." The Poet clapped and turned to Alistair. "How are we doing on the toxins, Donovan?"

"All right." He answered, angling the scanner to look out at his progress. "I've basically accumulated a massive ball of dirt and poison, so we should probably prep some defenses to destroy this once it's all sorted. I would suggest condensing the toxins and then lighting them with fire, though, due to the close proximity we'd have to get because of the effects of gravity on fire, that could pose a threat to us."

"My girl can handle it." The Poet patted the console affectionately. "Let's hit it!" She slapped a few buttons and pulled a crank. "My defenses are a tad rusty, but my thinking is that they'll still . . ." A shudder ran through the hull, and rattled up to shake the console room. "Work. That's the pollution going up, eh?"

"Right." Alistair confirmed. He bent over and coughed sharply, a great cough that honked with each renewed breath. Jonathan hurried over and patted his back, looking concerned.

"What's wrong with him?" He asked, looking to the Poet. "What have you done?"

"I transferred a small portion of huon energy from the heart of my TARDIS into his body to give him the knowledge to help me guide the TARDIS." The Poet answered, stepping over to them. "But he's human; his body can't take that kind of energy, even in small amounts. Not even I can take more than half of the huon energy my TARDIS contains."

"Well, do something!" Jonathan snapped.

Alistair coughed again, now leaning heavily on the console. "If I'm correct, the Poet could absorb the energy from my body, hence saving my life."

"I could do that, true." The Poet said and raised a finger. "But I have an easier solution." She looked up. "Excuse me, love! Mind lending a hand?"

Alistair suddenly straightened up, letting out a massive gasp. A river of blue flowed from his mouth, which hung open as if by force. The last glimmer of energy peeled away from him, and the human collapsed in a heap. Jonathan fell to his knees next to him, resting a hand on Alistair's face. The Poet kissed two of her fingers and tapped them against her console in thanks. She stepped out the door and into the throne room of the Minerine palace.

The room was no longer empty. Hundreds of Minerinites sat in perfect rows, facing away from the Poet, toward the throne—which now had a sister. The Queen was also absent, the seats occupied now by two proud figures. The Poet stepped discreetly to the side of the room as one of the figures stood. A tall crown rested on its head.

"My people," The figure began. The voice was loud, strong, and distinctly male. The voice of a king. "We have faced trying times as of late. Our past rulers have been corrupt, and blind to the needs of us all. But no longer. Today, we begin a new era of peace, and prosperity. Together, we will rebuild our planet into the thriving kingdom it once was."

Every one of the Others in the crowd raised their hands into the air, creating a massive sea of silent, but unanimous, approval. The Poet assumed it must be the Minerine version of cheering. It created a very chilling, awe-inspiring effect. Another moment of this passed, the silence comfortable and almost smelling of hope. Then, as though on signal, the hundreds of citizens stood, turned, and marched evenly out of room through doors that lined the walls. The Poet started walking up to the thrones as the room cleared.

"Hello!" She waved out to the two rulers. The King remained standing. A flowing cape was draped over his thin shoulders, pooling at his feet. The new Queen was sitting next to him, her own tiara balanced delicately on her head, her white dress resting lightly on her frame. "Excuse me, your Majesties. I was here some time ago, I think I saved your planet."

"Ah, yes." The King said. His and the Queen's features were defined, unlike the average citizen's. "The Time Lord. Yes, you did help us. Save us, even. Our planet, our very race, in indebted to you."

"Oh, you know." The Poet waved a hand modestly. "All in a day's work."

The King tilted his head curiously. "Do you not recognise me?" He asked.

The Poet paused awkwardly, bouncing on her heels. "Ah, sorry. Should I?"

His Majesty laughed heartily. "No, you should not. You may know me better by the name of Sh."

The Poet's mouth dropped open. "Oh, my . . . really?" She laughed. "Sh, that's brilliant! Did you hold a high status before the planet's cleaning?"

"No, I did not." Sh replied. "However, I was the ringleader, so to speak, of the coup against our Queen several months ago. Our government is not like the humans' form of monarchy. My people elected me and my mate as rulers for our role in restoring order. Which reminds me," He held out a hand to the Queen, who stood in a graceful motion and swept down to the Poet. "This is my mate, Ik. On Earth, she would be referred to as my 'wife'."

"Pleased to meet you," The Queen sighed. Her voice was a breathless sort of hum that sounded like chimes. "I am so thrilled to finally make your acquaintance. Sh has told me much about how you helped our planet."

"Well, I just wanted to check in on how you all were doing." The Poet said happily, grinning from ear to ear. "I'm just happy Minerine is in good hands now."

"Our future prosperity is all thanks to you, Poet." Sh said gratefully, bowing deeply to the Time Lady, who bowed in return.

"Any time, your Majesty." She said. "Please, don't be afraid to call me if any more trouble should arise."

Sh and Ik exchanged a short glance. "For a small portion of our debt, we wish to bestow upon you a short message that we know with certainty will be of great future value to you; a warning, if you will."

The Poet nodded in understanding. "As you will, your Majesties."

"Silence." The monarchs intoned together in an eerie monotone. Their blank eyes stared out at the Poet, their expressions glazed over. "Silence will fall."

-o-

"Hey, Poet!" Alistair and Jonathan both let out a giggle and waved to the Time Lady. They were sitting in the parlour above the console, reclining in the comfy chairs. "Where've you been?"

"Oh, ah, you know." The Poet took off her hat and ran a hand through her hair, letting out a long sigh. Sh and Ik's warning ran in circles through her mind. "Just, uh, parlaying with Minerine royalty. Not a big deal." Her tone was not sarcastic.

"Oh, cool." Alistair said. "But hey, you know what's even more brilliant than that? If I press this button, the end table gives me jammy dodgers! I can even choose what flavour! How neat is that?"

"Very neat, Donovan." The Poet rolled her eyes and sat down to complete the triangle of chairs. She leaned back with a great breath, staring up at the ceiling. "You all right? Sorry about the huon energy; I needed your help for that one."

"Oh, I'm fine." Alistair brushed off lightly. "It was a weird deal, I'll give you that much. Is that how you always feel? All the time? It was like I could see . . . everything." His tone was soft, thoughtful, now. "Like the turn of the Universe was inside my head. Time was stretched out before me. I could see everything that was, and everything that is, and everything that could be. It was so odd—the strangest mix of terrible pain and ecstasy."

"Yeah." The Poet muttered, turning her head. "All the time." She stayed like that for another second, wishing she could take even that moment to simply relax, and not have to do anything. But that wasn't how it worked. Even in that moment, her mind was like a running engine of a car that had the brake on. Just burning rubber in the drive, but going nowhere. Churning up smoke and killing itself in its attempts to get away.

So she hopped to her feet and plucked the jammy dodger from Alistair's hand. "So, you're sticking around with me, yeah?" Crumbs flew from her smiling mouth. The Poet hopped over the rail and landed below, next to the console.

"Mind if I take a day off?" Alistair asked over the banister. "I mean, I am married now. I figure I can take a holiday and you can come pick me up in a while."

"Oh, you scheming little ginger." The Poet yawned, and the TARDIS dialed in its coordinates. "Do you take me for some sort of cab service?"

"Yeah, actually."

The Poet paused, and then sighed. "Oh, fine. I suppose you deserve a honeymoon without me _endangering your lives._ Picky, picky humans." She muttered.

"Just, ah, drop us off back outside my flat." Alistair said.

"Where else would I drop you off?" The Poet laughed as the TARDIS came to a halt.

"Whatever you say, alien." Alistair waved. "A good few months should be fine, but give yourself some time off, too. Go visit the Doctor or something."

"Good idea. Now, have fun, kids. And remember! Sharing is caring, eat your vegetables, and hold hands when you cross the street." She pointed at the two meaningfully, but was smirking. "I'm serious."

She waved them off and then jumped back over to her console. The Poet lightly flicked a few buttons and blew a kiss to the launch lever, which yanked itself down. "Sorry about taking some of that lovely energy of yours, I needed it for something." The lights around the room softly glowed a few different colours in succession. "Thank you, love." She patted the banister happily as the TARDIS stopped.

She peeked out the door, cautious in case of surprise stars, but realised that she was fine and hopped out into the Doctor's console room. "Hello?"

"Oh, Poet!" The Doctor poked his head out from around the pillar in the console. "Good to see you, we were just on our way to some places."

Amy stood up and ran down to meet the Poet halfway. "Poet, you will _never guess _who we just met."

"Vincent van Gogh."

Amy was flabbergasted. A few paces away, the Doctor barked a little laugh. "_How _did you guess that?"

The Poet shrugged. "I have my ways. So, where we off to this time?"

"I suggested Sinda Callista." The Doctor piped up, walking around to greet the Poet, who grinned and nodded in approval.

"Sounds good, very good. Which moon?"

"The fifth." The TARDIS stopped, and the two Time Lords eagerly jumped over to the door. Sinda Callista was one of the Poet's favourites. They poked their bodies most of the way out the doorway, peering around. They were in some Earth-style park; the rectangle of short grass was surrounded by brick flat buildings. There were a few tall oak trees here and there, and a little car that plodded along the street.

"Sorry, Amy, this is definitely not the fifth moon of Sinda Callista." The Doctor called back.

"Clearly. Can you even drive when I'm not around?" The Poet snarked.

"Oh, shut up." Though the Doctor's tone was rather amused. He leaned out a little more. "I think I can see a Ryman's . . ."

A shockwave, almost like a very strong gust of wind, suddenly whisked out of the TARDIS. The Time Lords went tumbling out with a couple of surprised yells. The sound of the TARDIS door slamming closed snapped in the air like a bang. The phone box began to fade away, whirring just as normal.

"Amy!" The Poet cried, scrambling up. She tried to sonic it back, but that only worked on her own TARDIS.

"Amy," The Doctor sighed. He hadn't stood up, probably because he knew it was useless. He and the Poet looked at each other, equally disappointed. "Amy."


	12. Stranded

_A ha ha… I'm not looking forward to dealing with River, considering the genre under which this story is listed. And, I mean, she's a pretty big part of the plot as far as we can tell, but…ugh. –facepalms- Oh, god, it's all just so fucked up. I'll figure it eventually…damn River Song and her canon marriage! Oh, and spoilers. (No pun intended. ;))_

_**Wait a second…**__This is fan fiction! I can do whatever I want (to an extent)! –evil grin- So, fellow whovian readers, tell me if you're up to the idea of a little AU stuff. It's in your hands. I mean, this is already AU, but you know what I mean. I like River, but—okay, enough. Too much AN already. _

"_Today, befriend a stranger, or if you feel up to more of a challenge, befriend a loved one." -Robert Brault_

_W'P_

"Oh, god, this is terrible." The Poet said a little too loudly, quickly pushing the cup of coffee away from her like it was poison—it certainly tasted like it. She wasn't sure how humans drank it. Tea was much better. She checked her watch for the seventh time that morning, sighed and let her head fall down on the café table. "Is this how time always passes?"

"As far as I've experienced it, yes." The Doctor answered from across from her, his long fingers tapping restlessly against the tabletop. "We need to set up communications with Amy, figure out how the TARDIS left."

The Poet reached into her jacket and checked a few different pockets before pulling out an earpiece that she had linked to her TARDIS. "Got this. We could probably transfer its link to your TARDIS instead of mine. Donovan's on holiday." She tossed it over the table.

"Ooh, earpieces. Love a good earpiece." The Doctor opened a tiny panel in the side and began to carefully tinker with a couple little wires.

"I think we need to find lodging." The Poet said. She was fiddling with her sonic screwdriver under the table, the little blue light flashing on and off. "If nothing else, then at least so we aren't wandering around with nothing to . . . do . . ." She trailed off, her gaze turned out the window. She squinted across the street at a paper shop, her Gallifreian eyes focusing on a little sign. "Hey, this might be a good start."

"What?" The Doctor looked up at her, and followed her gaze to the paper shop. "Oh, that makes sense."

They quickly paid the bill and left the café, hurrying across the street to the paper shop. It was pasted above a flyer for lodging in a flat. The Doctor plucked the note from the window, as well as the advert. After a moment, he handed it to the Poet. Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Well, that's awfully convenient." They grinned and the Poet nodded a little. "We need to thank Amy when we get back."

-o-

"I love you!" The door to the flat was flung open by a pudgy young man, whose expression was now one of sudden confusion. A plop of blond hair sat on his head, matched by some short stubble. One foot out the door, he frowned at the two people on his doorstep, who looked at each other in amusement.

"Well, that's good, because we're your new lodgers. Do you know," The Doctor reached forward and plucked a set of pink keys from the man's limp hand. "I think this is going to be easier than we expected."

"But I only put up the advert today, I didn't put the address." The man's light brows knitted together as he wondered how they could be there.

"Well, aren't you lucky we came along? More lucky than you know." The Doctor added quietly, looking up at the second floor with an ominous frown before lightening up again. "Less of a young professional, more of an ancient amateur, but frankly I'm an absolute dream." He finished with a proud smile.

"Hang on, guys, I don't know if I want you staying. And give me back those keys. You can't have those!" He took said keys from the Doctor's grasp.

"Yes, you're right." The Poet grinned and held up a paper bag. "Here, have some rent. That's probably quite a lot, isn't it? I'm never sure. Currency, you know, lots of changes there."

The man looked shocked as he peeked inside the bag. The Poet and Doctor pushed their way past him and into the place. The man looked around, helpless, and closed the door after them. Inside there was a staircase leading up right in front of the door, a flickering light bulb on top. To the left was another door, apparently to the other flat.

"Don't spend it all on sweets." The Doctor advised, looking up the stairs. "Unless you like sweets. I like sweets. Ooh." He turned around and put a faux kiss on either side of the landlord's face. "That's how we greet each other nowadays, isn't it? I'm the Doctor. Well, they call me the Doctor. I don't know why. I call me the Doctor too. Still don't know why."

"At least you make sense." The Poet mimicked the Doctor's action. "I'm the Poet, by the way. I guess I'm poetic."

"Um, Craig Owens." The man said, still seeming to be in a bit of a whirl. "The Doctor?"

"Yep. Who lives upstairs?"

"Just some bloke."

"What does he look like?" The Doctor was using his "suspicious investigation" voice.

"Normal. He's very quiet." Just after the words left Craig's mouth, there was a loud bang upstairs and the sound of breaking glass. "Usually." The Doctor wordlessly walked into the ground-level room and into a kitchen. "Sorry, who are you again? Hello? Excuse me."

"Ah." The Doctor stopped at the corner of the living area, put his hands in his pockets and looked at the corner between ceiling and walls, where there was a blotchy dark stain. "I suppose that's . . . dry rot?"

"Or damp. Or mildew." Craig replied, also looking.

"Or none of the above." The Poet muttered.

"I'll get someone to fix it." Craig said quickly.

"No, I'll fix it." The Doctor returned just as quickly. "I'm good at fixing rot. Call me the rotmeister. No, I'm the Doctor, don't call me the rotmeister." Changing the topic, he walked back to the kitchen and jumped up the sit on the counter. "This is the most _beautiful _parlour I have ever seen. You are obviously a man of impeccable taste. We can stay, can't we, Craig? Say we can."

"You haven't even seen the room." Craig said.

"The room?"

"Your room."

"My room? Oh yes, my room. My room." He frowned a little and looked over at the Poet sitting next to him, like he had come to a sudden realisation. "Our room?" Then he smiled again and looked back at Craig. "Take me to my room."

Craig led them there and opened the door, and the Time Lords went in first. The Doctor looked around appraisingly as the Poet ran a finger along the patterned wallpaper. "This is Mark's old room." Craig explained. "He owns the place. Moved out about a month ago, some uncle he never even heard of died and left a load of money in the will."

"How very convenient." The Doctor observed. "This'll do just right. In fact . . ." There was more banging and smashing from upstairs, accompanied by electricity snapping and lights wavering. The Doctor touched a finger to his tongue and held it out as though testing the wind. Craig frowned, confused, whilst the Poet looked on unaffected. "No time to lose. I'll take it. Ah, you'll want to see my credentials." He pulled out his psychic paper and held it out. "There. National insurance number . . ." He passed it behind his back and held it up again. "NHS number," He did it again. "References."

Craig blinked in surprise, mouth dropping open a bit. "Is that a reference from the Archbishop of Canterbury?"

"I'm his special favourite." The Doctor said and put a finger to his lips. "Shh." The Poet held back a laugh. "Are you hungry?" The Doctor perked up happily. "I'm hungry."

"Famished, actually." The Poet followed him back out into the kitchen with Craig bringing up the rear.

"I haven't got anything in!" Craig said.

"You've got everything I need for an omelette." The Doctor opened the fridge and cupboards, taking out food and a pan, throwing ingredients together in a way that suggested this was not his first time cooking. The Poet went into the fridge and opened a carton of eggs, tossing them over to the Doctor. "Fines herbes! Pour trois!"

"Sonne bien!" The Poet winced as the Doctor ducked to catch an egg she had thrown short. "Sorry. Good catch, though."

"So, who's the girl on the fridge?" The Doctor asked as he shredded cheese at lightning speed into the pan. He was referencing the picture of a smiling Craig with an equally happy blond woman, displayed proudly on the fridge.

"My friend, Sophie." Craig answered, passing said picture a look.

"Girlfriend?"

"Friend, who's a girl." Craig's answer was a little too quick. "There's . . . nothing going on." He seemed almost sad. The Poet raised an eyebrow.

"Ah, that's completely normal." The Doctor said, Craig's regretful tone flying right over his head. "Works for me."

"We met at work about a year ago at the call centre." The landlord explained.

"Oh _really_, a communications exchange? That could be handy." The Doctor ground black pepper into the concoction in the pan.

"Yeah, the firm's going down, though. The boss is using a totally rubbish business model." Craig was almost talking to himself at this point, with the Doctor tossing what looked like ham into the egg pan and the Poet looking intently at the miscellanea on the fridge. "I know what they should do. I got a plan all worked out, but I'm just a phone drone, I can't go running in saying I know best." The Doctor squirted mayonnaise into the pan. "Why am I telling you this? I don't even know you."

"Well, I've got one of those faces. People never stop blurting out their plans while I'm around." The Doctor smiled and began mixing the whole deal together, the food sizzling.

"Right." Craig clapped his hands together. "Where's your stuff?"

"Don't worry, it'll materialise." The Poet smirked and nodded a little at the Doctor's answer. "If all goes to plan."

"Hope so." The Time Lady cast another quick look at the "rot" in the corner. Craig gave her a look, as though only just remembering she was there.

"Sorry, who are you again?" He asked.

"The Poet. I'm, uh, I'm . . ." She thought quickly for a second. "I'm his fiancée." She jerked a thumb at the Doctor, who gave her a look that landed between surprised and amused.

"Oh, nice. When's the wedding?" Craig asked politely.

"Uh, sometime." The Poet answered. "Haven't decided yet. Oh, is food done?" She accepted a plate from the Doctor and pecked his cheek. "Thanks, love." The Time Lord blushed a little and gave a serving to Craig and then himself. They all dug in standing up or leaning against something, and when they were done, took a seat in the parlour.

"Oh, that was incredible!" Craig exclaimed, tossing himself down on the sofa. "That was absolutely brilliant! Where did you learn to cook?" The Doctor sat in an armchair, the Poet perching herself on the arm.

"Paris, in the eighteenth century. No, hang on, that's not recent, is it? Seventeenth? No, no, twentieth. Sorry, not used to doing them in the right order." The Doctor smiled innocently.

Craig paused, frowning incredulously at the Time Lord but looking somewhat bemused. "Has anyone ever told you that you're a bit weird?"

"They never really stop." The Doctor said. "Ever been to Paris, Craig?"

"Nah, I can't see the point in Paris. I'm not much of a traveller."

"I can tell by your sofa."

"My sofa?"

"You're starting to look like it."

Craig laughed. "Thanks, mate, that's lovely." The Doctor kept smiling, a bit obliviously. He looked down at a set of keys in Craig's hand adorned with pink fluff and a matching pink teddy. "No, I like it here. I'd miss it, I'd miss . . ."

"Those keys?" The Doctor asked.

"What?" Craig snapped back into reality to look at the alien.

"You're sort of . . . _fondling_ them."

"I'm _holding _them!" Craig said defensively, standing. "Anyway, these . . ." He picked up a jingling set of keys from near the door. "Are your keys."

The Doctor jumped out of his chair and walked over to Craig, grinning. "So I can stay?"

The landlord laughed again. "You're weird and you can cook, it's good enough for me." He held each key up one by one as the Poet walked over to stand next to the Doctor. "Right. Outdoor, front door, your door."

At this point, the Doctor was grinning hugely. "My door. My place. My gaff. Ha, ha, yes! Me with a key."

Craig lowered his voice. "And hey, listen, Mark and I, we had an arrangement where if you ever need me out of your hair, just give me a shout, okay?" He winked pointedly.

The Doctor nodded and winked back. There was a pause. "Why would I want that?"

"In case you guys, you know . . ." Craig gestured between him and the Poet. "Want some alone time."

"Oh!" Both Time Lords flushed to the tips of their ears as the Doctor answered. "Er, yes. I will, I will, um . . ."

"I think we get the message." The Poet interrupted, her face still pink. Craig smiled knowingly at the two. The Doctor cleared his throat.

"By the way, about that . . ." He nodded at the corner. "That rot. I've got the strangest feeling we shouldn't touch it." He gave Craig a serious look before brushing past. The Poet followed to their room, whereupon the Doctor promptly flopped down on the bed. The Poet pushed him over to the side and plopped down with her face in a pillow.

"Ah, hey, watch the arm." The Doctor pulled his arm from under the Poet's neck. The Time Lady flipped onto her back with a huff and put her bowler on the end table.

"Sorry. Pardon the intrusion," She reached over into one of the inside pockets of the Doctor's jacket, causing him to blush for the third time that day. "Here we go." She plucked the fixed earpiece out and tossed it up, turning so she was on her back. "All fixed up, then? Won't be any use contacting an empty TARDIS."

"Yeah, should be all right." The Doctor put the communicator on his ear and tapped it. "Earth to Pond, Earth to Pond, come in Pond." After a moment, a screech of feedback loud enough for the Poet to hear echoed through the earpiece. The Doctor grimaced and flinched. "Could you not wreck my new earpiece, Pond?"

"Mine, actually." The Poet hummed, eyes shut. The Doctor listened to Amy for a moment. He frowned and sat up, his mop of hair puffed up all over the place.

"Ooh, that's nasty." He said quietly to Amy. "She's stuck in a materialisation loop; trying to land again, but can't." He paused as Amy spoke again.

"I don't know what it is yet." The Doctor said to Amy and the Poet. He stood up on the bed. "Whatever can stop the TARDIS from landing is big—scary big." He paused and listened. "I don't know what's up there and I don't know how to deal with it. And it is vital that this man upstairs doesn't realise who and what we are." He grinned and started bouncing up and down. "So no sonicing. No advanced technology. I can only use this because we're on scramble." He jumped down off the bed. "To anyone else hearing this conversation, we're speaking absolute gibberish."

"Well, excluding me." The Poet added, tossing her sonic between hands in boredom. Regular time passed so _slowly_ . . .

"All I've got to do is act like an ordinary human being." The Doctor continued. "Simple. What could possibly go wrong?" He put on a pair of sunglasses and went to look at himself in the little mirror the room sported. He peered at himself over the sunglasses for a moment. "So, you're just going to be snide. No helpful hints?" He paused again. "Bowties. Are. Cool."

The Poet rolled her eyes, pulling herself into a sitting position to take her jacket off. "Stop bickering."

"Come on, Amy. I'm a normal bloke, tell me what normal blokes do!" The Doctor waited for her reply. "I could do those things. I don't, but I could. Wait, wait, Amy?" He looked concerned, and turned to the clock on a table. The Poet followed his gaze, where all three needles were wildly swinging back and forth. "Interesting. Localised time loop. Time distortion . . . whatever's happening upstairs is still affecting you . . . my end's good. No, no, no, not really. Just keep the zigzag plotter on full. That'll protect you."

The Doctor sat down on the end of the bed, careful not to accidentally sit on the Poet's feet. "Amy, I said the zigzag plotter! Well, you're standing with the door behind you? Okay, take two steps to your . . . right, and pull it again. Now, I must not use the sonic. I've got work to do. Need to pick up a few items." He began yanking open drawers in a dresser, pulling random things out and tossing them on the bed. He turned the earpiece off, though left it on his ear, and then turned to the Poet. "Coming?"

The Poet stood up and loosened her tie. "Oh, I think you can handle this yourself. Maybe I'll try and sleep. Haven't done that in a while." She sat down with her back to the wall.

"Aren't you going to use the bed?"

The Poet slid open an eye to look over at the Doctor, standing near the door. "Let's not get into that. We're just going to be courteous back and forth all night. You can take the bed," She smirked. "Unless you want to share it."

The Doctor's face flushed pink at the implication. "Ah, er, actually, I have to go and, um," He started over to the door, carefully opening it so it made no noise. "Get a few items."

"Have fun. Oh, actually, that reminds me." The Poet dragged her jacket over and, after a minute of rummaging, pulled out a couple of golden bands. "Might do our back-up story well if we wear these." She tossed the plain one over to the Doctor and put the one with the diamond on her own finger.

"You just _have_ wedding bands on you?" The Doctor asked, looking a little bemused as he put his on.

"You never know. I also had thermo-sensitive sunglasses on me." The Poet said, tossing her jacket back on the bed. "Why do you think I like that jacket? It's bigger on the inside." The Poet let her head fall back against the wall, and closed her eyes. "Don't forget to use a trolley."

-o-

The Poet found Craig waiting outside the bathroom door the next morning. Her shirt was unbuttoned and un-tucked but she seemed unbothered by it, sleeves down and unbuttoned as well to hang around her wrists. She raised an eyebrow at the impatient Craig and looked to the bathroom, where the sounds of someone loudly singing and a shower running could be heard. Craig gave the Poet an exasperated look and knocked on the door.

"Doctor!" He called.

"Hello?" The Time Lord sang back.

"How long are you gonna be in there?"

"Oh, sorry! I like a good soak!"

The Poet snorted at his response, and at the same time there was a loud thumping from upstairs. Craig looked up at the ceiling. "What the hell was that?" He asked.

"I don't know . . ." The Poet said as Craig walked off to investigate. "But I would be careful."

"Don't worry, I'm just going to check to see if he's okay." Craig walked past her, to the hall outside.

"Doctor, Craig's gone to look upstairs!" The Poet said through the door. "I think you should—oh, hell." She muttered and walked after her landlord. He was at the top of the stairs, and had knocked on the door already. The Poet walked up a few steps, hanging back and watching on warily. "Craig, don't . . ." She stopped speaking as the door cracked open and instinctively reached for the sonic in her pocket.

"Yes, hello?" The voice on the other side of the door was that of an old man.

"I-it's me, from downstairs." Craig said politely. "I-I heard a big bang."

"Thank you, Craig, but I don't need your help." He began to close the door.

"All right, Craig, move!" The Poet pushed her way past him and tried to sonic past the door, and ended up scanning the frame. She waved the rod across the door and held it at the lock before holding it up to look at the results. She made a noise of frustration as the Doctor burst into the hallway, in nothing but a blue towel around his waist, pointing an automatic toothbrush at the Poet and the door. He saw the sonic in her hand and gave her a look. She shook her head very slightly and quickly put it back in her pocket.

"What's going on?" Craig asked as he reached the bottom of the stairs. "What's she holding—is that my toothbrush?"

"Correct." The Doctor said faintly and stopped pressing down the button on the toothbrush. "You spoke to the man upstairs?"

"Yeah."

"What did he look like?"

"More normal than you do at the moment, mate." Craig said with a laugh. It was true. If nothing else, the Doctor's hair was a positive mess, stuck all over the place. "What are you doing?"

"I thought you might be in trouble." The Doctor said quietly and looked back up at the door.

Craig chuckled. "Thanks. Well, if I ever am, you can come save me. With my toothbrush." A phone rang in the other room, and Craig hurried off to answer it. The Doctor pushed his hair, still damp and unruly, out of his face and met the Poet in the middle of the staircase.

"Anything unusual?" He muttered.

"Couldn't find anything. Looked normal, human, but I couldn't get a good look. Nothing on the sonic either. Not anything out of the ordinary." She breathed back. "What do you suppose is up there?"

"I don't know yet, but it's very bad."

"Bad enough that the TARDIS can't land." The Poet looked past the Doctor's shoulder to the door, which opened to reveal a blonde woman in a coat and hat.

"Ooh! Hello." She yelped, looking up at the almost-naked Doctor and mostly-dressed Poet, the latter of whom quickly checked her shirt and secured a button in the middle.

"Aah!" The Doctor made sure his towel covered him before going downstairs. "Hello. The Doctor." He greeted the woman the same way he had Craig, with a light peck just above each cheek. The woman seemed flustered by this. The Poet, meanwhile, slid down the banister and jumped off.

"Hello, I'm the Poet." She, again, mimicked the Doctor. "You must be Sophie." The Doctor walked into the kitchen, where Craig, still on the phone, began asking him about a football game. The two women followed, the Poet continuing. "We're new. I'm the Doctor's, ah, fiancée."

Sophie opened the fridge and put a few things in. "Really, well, um, congratulations. When's the wedding?"

"Haven't set a date yet." The Poet said.

"Well, you're lucky." Sophie whispered conspiratorially. "He's gorgeous." The Poet blinked and looked over at the Doctor, the thought not yet having exactly occurred to her. He met her gaze as he turned to the fridge and smiled, causing the Poet to automatically smile back. The Doctor grabbed a half pint of milk from the fridge and took a swig, stepping back to watch Craig and Sophie interact.

"Hey, Soph." Craig hung up the phone and greeted the woman.

"Hey." Sophie grinned. "Thought I'd come by early to see your new flatmates."

"Do you play football, Sophie?" The Doctor asked, handing the milk to the Poet, who drank some and gave it back.

"No, Soph just stands on the sidelines." Craig answered for her. "She's my mascot."

"I'm your mascot? _Mascot?" _Sophie looked a little offended. The Doctor and Poet looked between them as Craig stuttered to cover his mistake. The Poet slowly reached over and took the milk away from the Doctor.

"Y-you're not . . . you're not my mascot, I mean, it's a football match, I can't bring a date."

"I didn't say I was your date."

"Neither did I." Craig said immediately. There was an uncomfortable silence between the four.

The Poet was first to break it. "Better get dressed." She muttered to the Doctor.

"Right, dressed." He handed the toothbrush to Craig walked back to the room.

"Oh, uh, spare kit's in the, uh, bottom drawer." Craig called. The Doctor poked his head out.

"Bit of a mess." He said and closed the door again. It opened a second later, the Doctor looking at Sophie in suspicion. "You unlocked the door. How did you do that? Those are your keys, you must have left them here last time you came here."

"How did you know these were my keys?" Sophie held up the keys with the pink teddy and fluff, frowning.

"I've been holding them." Craig said immediately, and made a face like he thought he'd made a mistake.

"I've got another set." Sophie jingled a blank set.

"You've got two sets of keys to someone else's house?" The Poet asked, putting the half pint back in the fridge.

"Yeah." Sophie said, like there was nothing wrong with that.

"I see." The Doctor and Poet smirked knowingly at each other. "You must like it here, too." The Doctor closed the door again. Sophie smiled at Craig a little awkwardly and quickly fled into the hall outside the flat. Craig looked to the Poet, who, still smirking, shrugged and left him to his thoughts.

The Poet walked back to the parlour, grabbing her jacket. She sat down on the sofa and remembered her shirt was askew, absently fixing the buttons. Sophie's comment about the Doctor was bothering the back of her mind like a bug. She had never thought of him in that manner, but what Sophie had said was _really _starting to get to her. She twisted the fake wedding band around her finger, getting the sudden urge to both remove it and never take it off.

The Poet's line of thought was interrupted as the Doctor came out of their room, now wearing a blue kit with the number eleven on the back, oddly enough. The effect was made even stranger by the fact that he was still wearing his tweed jacket over the kit.

The Poet raised an eyebrow at him, standing. He grinned and spun in a circle. "So, do I look human enough?"

"I wouldn't know," She replied as they started toward the door. "But you look a bit mad."

"You would be surprised how often I hear that." The Doctor said.

"No, I don't think I would." The Poet retorted. They paused, and then both chuckled at each other. They rejoined Craig and Sophie at the door and they all went out, walking down to the park. The weather was cool but not cold, a little mist remaining close to the grass. A few people were out already, walking dogs or going for a run. While they were there, Craig brought up the topic of names again.

"What do I call you?" He asked the Time Lords. "I mean, what're your proper names?"

"Just call me the Doctor."

"And the Poet."

"I can't go up to these guys and say 'Hey, these are my new flatmates, the Doctor and Poet'!"

"Why not?" They asked at the same time, equally confused.

"'Cause it's weird!"

"All right, Craig!" A man greeted as they approached the small field. "Soph. All right, mate."

"Hello, I'm Craig's new flatmate!" The Doctor performed his usual greeting, and received the usual reaction; that mixture of surprise and incredulity. "I'm the Doctor."

"All right, Doctor, I'm Sean." He turned to the Poet. "Hello." This greeting was said with a little more interest.

"Good to meet you, Sean, I'm the Doctor's fiancée." She did the same faux kisses. Sean nodded, obviously a tad disappointed, and turned back to the Doctor.

"So, where are you strongest?" He asked.

"Arms." There was a pause as everyone took in the word, except for the Poet, who didn't see a problem with it.

Craig took a step closer and lowered his voice. "No, he means . . . what position on the field?"

"Not sure." The Doctor contemplated. "The front? The side? Below?"

"You any good, though?" Sean asked. The Doctor spun the football around on one finger for a moment.

"Let's find out." And he jogged toward the field, bouncing the football between knees. Sophie and the Poet walked over to stand on the sidelines while the boys went off to play. The Doctor, as it turned out, seemed to have a natural affinity for football. The ladies cheered him and the team on as the Doctor steered them to victory. He seemed to be greatly enjoying himself.

Craig, on the other hand, did not seem to be enjoying such antics. The Doctor may not have noticed, but the Poet did. She frowned a little when, as Craig was readying up to make a free shot, the Doctor cut in and made it instead. She still cheered him on, though, also enjoying pretending to be human and getting caught up in the game. She was also glad to get a definition for what football was, because she had been genuinely unsure of the sport until then.

The game ended with the sense that neither team won, but rather with the Doctor showing everyone up, including Craig. The Poet accepted a can of beer from Sean as he walked over with a bag of them, but put it down without opening it.

"Oh, you are _so _on the team." Sean said happily. The Doctor, now in a spectacular mood, put his arm around the Poet as he approached them. "Next week we've got the Crown and Anchor, we are going to _annihilate_—"

"Annihilate? No, no violence, do you understand me? Not while I'm around, not today, not ever." The Doctor said seriously, facing Sean. "I'm the Doctor, the Oncoming Storm . . . and you basically meant beat them in a football match, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

"Lovely. What sort of time?" Whatever Sean's reply may have been was interrupted by Craig opening a beer, and foam spraying everywhere. Everyone let out a chuckle, including both Time Lords—but they were the only ones who noticed when their fellows went through the same motions. Craig opened the beer, and everyone laughed. Time jerked around, Craig opened the beer, and everyone laughed. The Time Lords looked at each other and took a few steps back. The Doctor turned on the earpiece and tapped it so it was on speaker.

"Amy? Amy." He said, and they waited with bated breath for a response. There was faint crashing from the other end, the sounds the TARDIS makes when it goes rogue.

"It's happening again. Worse." Amy finally gasped from the other end.

"What does the scanner say?"

There was a small grunt from the other end. "A lot of nines. Are nines good? Tell me it's good that they are all nines."

The Time Lords exchanged an apprehensive look. "Ah, yes it's good, i-it's good," The Doctor answered hurriedly. "Zigzag plotter, zigzag plotter, Amy." There was another long moment of silence, the air tense with concern. A scream sang out of the communicator, along with louder beeping and whirring from the TARDIS. "Amy?" The Doctor breathed. "Are you there? Amy?"

"Yes." The Scot said from the other end. "Hello."

"Oh, thank heavens." The Doctor sighed with relief. "I thought for a moment that the TARDIS had been flung off into the Vortex with you inside it. Lost forever." He whistled, and then flinched away when the Poet smacked him.

"Don't tell her that!" She hissed.

"What, you mean that could actually happen?" Amy asked. "You have _got _to get me outta here."

"How are the numbers, Amy?" The Poet spoke up before the Doctor could worry the girl even more.

"Oh, hello, Poet." A beat passed. "All fives."

"Fives?" The Poet looked over to the Doctor, who looked back at the group behind them. The football team, Craig and Sophie had all returned to the normal continuity of time, and were busy talking and drinking contentedly. "Even better."

"Still, it means the effects are unbelievably powerful and dangerous but don't worry." The Doctor informed Amy, earning another chastising smack from the Poet. "Hang on. We've got some rewiring to do."


	13. Omens

"_I'm far from perfect, but I'll be perfect for that imperfect person that's perfect for me." -Amanda Bynes_

_-o-_

The Gallifreians had already destroyed the bed, completely and utterly. Ripped it apart and used most of it for the scanner they were building. The Poet was rifling through the trolley of seeming junk the Doctor had brought back during his run for building supplies. She grinned and pulled out a blue umbrella, opening it with a _fwoomp_. She spun it around, grinning.

"This could come in handy." She stated. "Good stuff you picked up. Lovely. Love it." She tossed the umbrella back and took out a long string of Christmas lights for a tree. "Let's see . . . power and, hm, decoration?" She held them up and wrapped them around her neck. "Great. What else . . ." She dove back in as there was a knock on the door. The Doctor jumped over to answer it, an orange traffic cone in his hands, as the Poet clanged around behind him. He spoke lowly with Craig for a moment before stepped back into the room.

He stuck a cricket bat into the contraption, the parts they had already set up clanging uproariously, tossing the cone away. "Perfect!" He exclaimed happily and snatched a rake from the pile. "What a beauty."

"Hmm, the scanner or the rake?" The Poet asked, bending some clothes hangers out of shape.

"Both!" The Time Lord grinned hugely at her. "And you, too." He added as an afterthought.

"Oh, my hearts can't take such flattery." The Poet put both hands on either side of her ribcage and fluttered her lashes sarcastically. The Doctor rummaged through the trolley, taking out any cables and putting them around his neck in the same manner as the Poet with her Christmas lights. He walked over and took them off of her.

"May I?" He asked.

"Yep." The Poet rummaged in the trolley until she found a Santa cap and put it on, grinning at her little find. Useless for the scanner, but awfully funny-looking.

"We need to fix the electrics. Can't have them giving out." He said, picking up a normal, non-sonic screwdriver from the trolley, as well as a box of excess cables. "This way." He opened the door and walked out quietly. The Poet followed him out, messing with the fluff on the Santa cap a bit. They found the fuse box and began tinkering with it, though they were both equally confused on the operation of the screwdriver.

The Poet took it for a moment and tried searching for the "on" switch. The Doctor eventually decided to look for help. "Let's ask Craig." The Time Lords went into the parlour. They ended up going completely undetected and crouched behind the sofa where Craig and Sophie were sitting and talking.

"Hello." The Doctor said quietly. Both humans gasped, Craig looking outright irritated. "Oops. Don't worry, we weren't listening."

"I thought you were going out." Craig hissed to the Doctor.

"Oh, don't worry." The Doctor replied. "Just rewiring the electrics. It's a real mess." He held up the screwdriver. "Where is the 'on' switch for this?"

"He really is just on his way out." Craig explained to Sophie, jerking his head at them.

"Oh, I mean, I don't mind if you don't mind." Sophie said unsurely.

"I don't mind, why would I mind?" Craig still sounded annoyed but obviously trying to appease his friend.

"Then stay, have a drink with us." Sophie said to them.

"What?" The Doctor and Poet exchanged a glance. "Do we have to stay now?"

"Do you _want _to stay?" Craig snapped.

"I don't mind."

"Great!" Craig said sarcastically. A few moments later the Doctor was back in the armchair from earlier, the Poet again perched on the arm with the metal box of excess wiring in her lap, absently toying with the cables around the Doctor's neck with one hand and holding her glass with the other. She took a sip of the wine out of common courtesy, made a discreet noise and face and forced herself to swallow, coughing in disgust.

"So, how long have you two known each other?" Sophie asked them. "Craig and I have known each other for . . . 'bout a year or two now, isn't it?" Craig nodded as confirmation, looking a little uncomfortable.

"Ah," The Time Lord and Lady looked at each other, amused, as the Poet answered. "A very, very long time."

"How did you meet?" Sophie was smiling, obviously interested, but the Poet hadn't gone into detail with their back-up story. She actually hadn't even thought of it.

"We, well, we . . ." She thought for a second, briefly remembering their meeting at the crashed _Byzantium_. "We saved each other's lives." The Doctor smiled, knowing the reference, and glanced up at her without moving his head.

"Oh, that's exciting!" Sophie gushed, grinning a big-toothed grin. "Mind if I hear the story?"

The Time Lords looked at each other again, both knowing there wasn't much they could go into detail about. "It's a long story."

Sophie looked a little disappointed, but continued smiling. "Well, I think it's great that you two are getting married. Because life can just seem so pointless sometimes, you know? Work, weekend, work, weekend. And there's six billion people on the planet doing pretty much the same."

"Six billion people?" The Doctor asked. "Watching you two at work, I'm starting to wonder where they all come from."

"What? What do you mean by that?" Even as Sophie answered, Craig snapped to attention, as though ready to step in with a conversation-changer should the discussion progress any further in that direction. The Poet noticed the action and internally chuckled.

"So, call centre. That's no good, then. What do you really want to do?" The Doctor smiled up at the Poet and gently pulled the plug in her hand out of her grasp to continue fiddling with it and handed her another one. Sophie looked at Craig for a moment.

"Don't laugh," She said. "I only ever told Craig about it."

"Hmm?"

"I want to work looking after animals. Maybe abroad?" Her eyes widened and she gestured with her hands a little. "I saw this orangutan sanctuary on telly."

"Oh. What's stopping you?" The Doctor plugged a few cables together, wiring clicking. He struggled for a moment with an extension cord. The Poet rolled her eyes, pulled it from his grasp and snapped it together.

"She can't." Craig said, not very sadly. "You need loads of qualifications."

"Yeah, true." Sophie nodded. "Plus, it's scary. Everyone I know lives round here. Like, Craig got offered a job in London. Better money, didn't take it."

"What's wrong with staying here?" Craig defended and looked down at his glass. "I can't see the point of London."

"Well, perhaps that's you, then." The Doctor said. "Perhaps you'll just have to stay here, secure, and a little bit miserable 'til the day you drop." He tried to use the not-sonic screwdriver on a plug, clearly still not exactly knowing its purpose. "Better than trying and failing, eh?"

"You'd think I'd fail?" Sophie asked, no longer smiling.

"Everybody's got dreams, Sophie." The Doctor picked up his wine and gestured at her with it. "Very few are going to achieve them. So why pretend?" He took a sip of the wine and instantly spit it back in the glass. The Poet snickered quietly and took the glass from him, setting it on the table beside her own full glass. "Perhaps, in the whole wide universe, the call centre is exactly where you should be."

"Why are you saying that? That's horrible!" Sophie said, seeming both offended and angry.

"Is it true?" The Doctor peered at the plug in his hand, slyly sliding his gaze up as Sophie responded.

"Of course it's not true! I'm not going to stay in a call centre all my life! I can do anything I want!" A look of realisation dawned on her face as the Doctor smirked at her. "Oh . . . Oh, yeah! Right." She and the Doctor bumped fists, Sophie laughing. "Oh my god, did you see what he just did?" She asked Craig. The Poet patted the Doctor's shoulder and grinned at him. He grinned back, touching her hand briefly.

"Hang on, what's happening?" Craig asked. "Are you going to live with monkeys now?"

"It's a big old world, Sophie." The Doctor said, still fiddling with the plug and screwdriver. He gave her a knowing smile. "Work out what's really keeping you here, eh?"

"I dunno." Both Craig and Sophie now looked a bit uncomfortable. "Dunno." Sophie left soon after, saying goodbye to the Time Lords. Craig went and saw her out, leaving the other two in the parlour.

"So," The Poet said. "Convincing people to follow their dreams. I really didn't expect anything different from you." She grinned, still not having moved her hand from his shoulder.

"Well, it seems appropriate, doesn't it?" The Doctor asked. "Who knows how long we'll be here. Might as well help out, eh?"

The Poet grabbed the screwdriver and plug from his hand. "You're not doing anything to the poor wiring, leave it be. We should probably work out a better cover-up, if that's the case." She said, holding his hand and distractedly messing with his fingers. "Either way, I think it's back to the scanner." She bounced up, carrying the box of cables and hence dragging the Doctor with her, back to the room.

They spent the next hour assembling the scanner with their random stuff, running around and sweating. They both ditched their jackets, the Poet rolling up her sleeves and the Doctor taking off his bracers. Eventually they had the spinning thing, perched on a lamp, rakes and cricket bats sticking out with an umbrella upside down on top, the orange traffic cone on top of that, the whole thing draped with multi-coloured lights and tons of other miscellanea. Chairs were turned over, light bulbs hung on things, the bed frame was upside-down underneath it all, with random pieces of netting, wiring, and household objects that were combined in an absolute cacophony of rubbish to create a makeshift scanner.

"Right! Shield's up!" The Doctor spun the device around, ducking out of the way of a mop. "Let's scan!" He bent to look at the digital clock. He had his earpiece in, talking with Amy while the Poet bounded around, tinkering with little things on the scanner. "Upstairs." The Doctor said. "No traces of high technology. Totally . . . normal. No, no, no, no, no, it can't be! It's too normal! . . . Without knowing and get myself killed? Then you'd really be lost. If I could just get a look in there. Hold on," He grabbed the cricket bat, stopping the rotating machine and looked at the Poet, though was talking to Amy. "Use the data bank, get me the plans of this building. Its history, the layout, everything. Meanwhile, I shall recruit a spy."

The Poet nodded, ducking under a metal rod and stumbling over something on the ground. "Cat! Get the cat. He's nice, I had a good chat with him yesterday."

The Doctor pointed at her. "Good, great. Find the cat, ask him to go in and talk with our . . . _normal _friend upstairs."

-o-

The Poet wandered into the kitchen early next morning, dressed much the way she had the previous day. She had slept sitting up, and the week was starting to become a record-setting amount of sleep at about six hours. She yawned, running her hands through her short hair, her shirt dangling open shamelessly and her eyes bleary; she found humans' modesty endearing, but did not follow the same social rules. She was not used to sleeping; it was something both she and the Doctor, as Time Lords, hardly needed, right next to food. It drained her more than anything, much less refreshed her. She had ben mercifully woken by the clanging of pans and sizzles of food in the kitchen, and had gone to investigate. The Doctor was there, making a positively massive breakfast.

"Huh, you're cooking again." The Poet mumbled, trying to recover. She wasn't going to sleep again until she desperately needed it. It boggled her mind that humans did it every night.

"Yeah, going to make Craig breakfast." He paused for a moment as the Poet stretched up to kiss his cheek in a motion that she was almost doing automatically, even after only two days of the façade. She then went to grab a piece of toast as it popped out the toaster.

"I think you upset him yesterday." She muffled past the toast. "He wants Sophie to stay."

"Didn't mean to." The Doctor stirred a pot of beans and threw the remaining toast on a plate. "People should go out, do what they want to. Wonderfully short lives humans lead, there's no time to sit about in a call centre." He accepted a jar of marmalade from the Poet and put it on the tray with the plate.

"You know why Craig is upset about Sophie leaving." The Poet dusted her hands off and poured herself a cup of tea.

"'Course I do!" The Doctor tossed a couple hotcakes on the plate. "I'm not that oblivious. He can make his own decisions about who he likes."

The Poet looked over the enormous amount of food the Doctor had produced. "You should cook more on the TARDIS." She said, taking a scalding sip of tea. "You seem to like it an awful lot, even though _we_ don't need it that often. The gingers would like it."

"Ah, I'm not that good." He put a cup and saucer on the tray with the ceramic kettle.

"Come now, you're brilliant." The Poet took another sip of tea. "The TARDIS can't make all the food. Now, let's get that to Craig."

"Right!" The Doctor picked up the tray and walked into the hall to Craig's room, the Poet trailing after. "Craig! Craig. Breakfast. It's normal." After a pause, he and the Poet exchanged a glance. "Craig?" The Poet squeezed past to open the door, and the two tumbled in. "Craig!" The Doctor put the breakfast on the bed and grabbed an unconscious Craig's arm. His veins were shot dark, like black worms in his arms. The skin around the veins was irritated and red, like he had been burned. Sweat was oozing from his skin as though he had just run a marathon with a high fever, and his breath came in weak whispers of air.

"I _told _you not to touch it. 'Look, what's that? It's an unfamiliar and pretty obviously poisonous substance! Oh, I know what would be really clever—_I'll stick my hand in it!_'" The Doctor clasped his hands together and brought them over his head. "Come on, Craig, breathe!" He slammed his fists down on his chest, and Craig opened his eyes with a gasp. "Come on, Craig, breathe! Thems are healthy footballer lungs!"

The Poet sat on the side of the bed and took Craig's pulse while the Doctor snatched the kettle and ran off to the kitchen. He came back a moment later and carefully made Craig drink from the spout. The kettle was now stuffed full with tea bags, the liquid almost totally black.

"I need to go the work." Craig gasped weakly, still sweating like mad and looking terrible.

"On no account." The Doctor placed the wooden spoon he had stirred the tea with to the side. "You need to rest. One more." He tipped the kettle up once more.

Craig grimaced and pulled away to speak. "It's a planning meeting. It's important."

"You're important." The Doctor argued. His expression softened. "You're going to be fine, Craig." He and the Poet stood and walked out. Once they were in the kitchen, they began talking again.

"I'll keep an eye on Craig, make sure he doesn't leave the house." The Poet said, buttoning her shirt and straightening the collar. The Doctor fixed his hair in a mirror and nodded. The Time Lady smiled at him. "This is why they call you the Doctor." She pondered.

"Why?"

"Because you're like a real doctor. Someone who heals people." The Poet brushed his shoulder and adjusted his bowtie. "Off to fill in for Craig at his job?" She asked.

"It's the least I can do. Try and figure out what you can about upstairs." The Doctor grinned at her briefly, though for what reason the Poet was unsure. "Be careful."

The Poet nodded. "Always am. _You _be careful. Don't get conspicuous." She saw him out of the house and, once he was gone, cleaned up the kitchen of the breakfast mess. She went to check on the makeshift scanner, which had no new or unusual readings. A little bored, she went out into the hall and saw the cat, fluffy pale with a dark face. She sat down against the stairs, facing the door. The cat hopped into her lap, purring when she stroked his soft fur.

"Mind if I ask you a favour?" She murmured to the cat, which mewed quietly. "I need you to go investigate the upstairs for me and come back later today with anything you noticed. Can you do that?" The feline yowled lowly in affirmation. The Poet beamed and scratched behind his ears. "Thanks." The cat bounced off her leg and began to crawl back up the stairs.

"Craig, no!" The Poet stood in front of the door, arms out stubbornly. "You're sick, now go lay down!"

"Poet, move; I have to get to work!" Craig pushed past her, and the Poet swiftly followed.

"Craig! About turn! You need rest!" She lunged for him, but the door to the house slammed closed a moment earlier. "Craig, damn . . ." She sighed and threw her hands up. "Get some rest!" She cried at the door. She turned around, and her gaze crept up to the door at the top of the stairs. The Poet paused before pulling her sonic out of her inside jacket pocket and started up the stairs. The lights flickered ominously as she reached the top and she ran the sonic around the door frame. A few seconds passed, and a shadow moved behind the stained glass.

The Poet sucked in a breath and, on a snap decision, jumped over the banister, landing hard below. She heard the door open above her. There was a stretch of silence, and the door clicked closed again. The Poet quickly went into Craig's flat and closed the door behind her, taking a long breath once she was on the other side. She caught her breath and went into her and the Doctor's room, locking the door once inside.

The Poet put her hands on her hips and stared at the scanner for a moment. It was spinning away, clanking and a little lopsided. She stepped forward and picked up the digital clock and glanced at the normal numbers for a moment.

The Poet looked up at the sound of the lock being opened and turned just as Craig threw open the door. His mouth fell open a little, eyes fixated on the scanner.

"What the hell?" He asked, staring at the room.

"Don't be alarmed!" The Poet threw up her hands and stepped in front of the scanner.

"What—what the hell is this thing?"

"It's, uh . . . art! Oh, yes, art! Very modern, a statement on society!" Craig shook his head at the Poet's answer and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. The Time Lady sighed. She heard faint thumps as Craig angrily played darts, and then even more distant talking. She threw open the door and saw the Doctor holding the bag of rent money. On instinct, the Time Lady moved to stand behind him.

"For a start, talking to a cat!" Craig exclaimed.

"Lots of people talk to cats!" The Doctor threw the bag behind him, pounds fluttering down behind him like expensive leaves.

"And everybody loves you, and you're better at football than me, and my job, and now Sophie's all 'Ooh, monkeys! Monkeys!', and then," He threw open the door to the bedroom. "There's that!" Both Time Lords dashed back into the room.

"It's art! A statement on modern society!" The Doctor said immediately, stepping over to stop it's spinning. "'Ooh, ain't modern society awful?'"

"Me and you two, it's not going to work out." Craig pointed between the three of them. "You've only been here three days, and it's been the three weirdest days of my life!"

"Your days will get much weirder if we go." The Doctor said.

"I thought it was good weird! It's not, it's bad weird! I can't do this anymore!" Craig cried.

"Craig, we can't leave." The Doctor insisted firmly. The Poet noticed he was slightly taller than the chubby landlord, giving a bit more intimidating stature. "We're like you, we can't see the point of anywhere else. Madrid, ha! What a dump. We _have to stay_."

"No, you don't!"

"I can't leave!"

"Just get _out!"_ Craig grabbed the Doctor's front in anger. The Time Lord slapped his hands down on the human's shoulders.

"Right, only way—I'm gonna show you something but shh! Really, shh!" The Doctor growled and pulled his head back. "Oh, I am really going to regret this. Okay, right . . . first, general background." The men cracked foreheads with a sickening _thunk,_ both reeling back in pain. The Doctor yelled out, holding his forehead and yelling. The Poet patted his shoulder sympathetically.

"Ready for round two?" She muttered.

"No." The Doctor said grouchily, a hand still pressed to his forehead. His expression lightened a little as he looked at her, and they both turned to see their landlord's reaction.

A moment of pain later, Craig straightened up with a massive gasp, pointing with awe at the Doctor. "You're a—"

"Yes . . ."

"And she's a—"

"Yes."

"From—"

"Shh!"

"You've got a TARDIS!"

"Shh, yes, shh!" The Doctor gasped urgently, gestured at his face. "Eleventh." He pointed at the Poet. "Ninth." He grabbed Craig again. "Right, okay. Specific detail," And slammed their heads together again. They both yelled loudly again, holding their foreheads and doubling over. Craig was up first this time, pointing at the Poet.

"You saw my ad in the paper shop window!" He cried.

"Yes, with this right above it." She held up Amy's card after giving the Doctor's forehead a quick peck. "Which is odd, because Amy hasn't written it yet. Time travel. It can happen."

"That's a scanner!" Craig gestured frantically at said scanner. "You've used non-technological technology of Lammasteen!"

The Doctor lunged over and slapped a hand over Craig's mouth. "_Shut up!" _He screamed.

Craig and the Doctor continued to reel in illogically large amounts of pain, holding their faces. The Poet sat by the Doctor, patting his head in somewhat wry comfort.

"I am never, never doing that ever, ever again." He turned on his earpiece. "Amy?"

"That's Amy Pond!" Craig yelped and covered his mouth.

"Oh, of course. You can understand us now. Hurrah. Got those plans yet? . . . I've worked it out with psychic help from a cat. Yes. I know he's got a time engine in the flat upstairs. He's using innocent people to try and launch it. Whenever he does, they get burnt up, hence the stain on the ceiling."

"From the ceiling!"

"Well done, Craig. And you, Miss Pond, get thrown off into the Vortex."

Something smashed in the upstairs flat. All three present looked up, alarmed. "People are dying up there!" Craig exclaimed, and it was soon clear he was stuck in a time loop. "People are dying—people are dying—" He shook himself from it. "They're being killed!"

The telltale signs of another person in the flat alerted the three. Faintly, a woman's screaming could be heard over the wavering and popping of the electricity almost failing. They dashed out of the flat and started up the stairs, the Poet passing Craig, who stopped to look at something.

"Craig, come on!" She yelled, and stopped to follow his gaze. The Doctor leaned over as well. There was a set of keys in the lock, decorated with a pink fluff and teddy. "Sophie." They turned and ran up, stopping at the door.

"Amy." The Doctor asked. The earpiece was on speaker, loud enough for them all to hear.

"Are you upstairs?"

"Just going in." The Doctor replied.

"But you can't be upstairs!"

"Of course I can be upstairs!"

"No, I've got the plans." Amy gasped. "It's a one-story building. _There is no upstairs!"_ Craig, the Poet and Doctor all turned their heads to look down the staircase they had just come up. The Poet reached between the boys and soniced the door open. They stepped in, and the first word Craig said perfectly summed up their collective thoughts.

"What?" The room was massive and highly advanced technology-wise. There was a ship-like structure in the middle of the metal room, four thin legs caged over a four-sided device in the middle. Each panel was shaped like a coffin, the top each decorated with a small purple globe slightly smaller than a football. "What?"

"Oh." The Doctor said, and looked at the Poet, who slapped her forehead with the palm of her hand. "Oh, of course!" They walked into the room a few paces. "The time engine isn't in the flat; the time engine _is_ the flat! Someone's attempt to _build_ a TARDIS."

"No, there's always been an upstairs!" Craig said, confused.

"Has there? Think about it." The Poet tapped her temple.

"Yes! No. I don't . . ."

"Perception filter." The Doctor said, still looking at the ship. "It's more than a disguise. It tricks your memory." A woman screamed on the far side of the room, and the three dashed forward.

"Sophie!" Craig sprinted around to her, who was trying to hold her hand back from one of the purple globes. "Oh, my god, Sophie!"

"It's pulling her, Craig, willing her to touch the activator!" The Doctor shouted. Both Time Lords ran around to sonic her hand and globe, but it was too late. Sophie's hand hit the globe, and they all cried out in panic. "Ah! Deadlock seal!"

"You've got to do something!"

They wrenched Sophie away and collapsed on the ground with a collective gasp. Sophie looked borderline unconscious, Craig cradling her on the ground. The Poet and Doctor looked at each other, the latter walking over to the edge of the centre platform. The Time Lady knelt at a burnt-out human corpse, frowning deeply.

Someone materialised behind them with a buzz. "You will help me!" He said, in the voice of an old man. Something was stopping them from seeing the man clearly—he was, somehow, shadowed in the well-lit room.

"Right! Stop." The Doctor said. "Crashed ship. Let's see. Hello! I'm Captain Troy Handsome of International Rescue. Please state the nature of your emergency."

"The ship has crashed." The old man replied. "The crew are dead. A pilot is required."

"You're the emergency crash program—a hologram. What? You've been luring people in here so you can try them out?" The Doctor sneered, pointing his sonic at the hologram.

"You will help me—you will help me—you will help me—" The hologram glitched, changing to a little girl, and then a young man, and then an older fellow again.

"Craig, what is this? Where am I?" Sophie asked softly. The Poet rushed over to kneel by her instead of the corpse as the Doctor continued to converse with the program.

"Shh, dear." The Time Lady ran her sonic around the blonde and looked at it, and then patted her knee, wary of Craig's possessive look. "You'll be fine. We'll explain everything later."

"But you're _stupid, _aren't you? You just keep trying!" The Doctor was seething now, still fixated on the silhouetted hologram.

"Seventeen people have been tried." The hologram, now elderly, said in a monotone. "Six billion, four hundred thousand and twenty-six remain."

"Seriously, what is going on?" Sophie asked as Craig helped her stand.

"Oh, for goodness' sake." The Doctor sighed, annoyed. "The top floor of Craig's apartment is, in actuality, an alien spaceship, intent on slaughtering the population of this planet. Any questions, no, good."

"Yes, I have questions!"

"The correct pilot has now been found." The hologram interrupted.

"Yes, I was a bit worried that you were going to say that." The Doctor said. Electricity from the machine latched out and grabbed him, tugging the Time Lord forward. He was obviously trying to resist, to keep himself away. "Oh, here we go." The Poet dashed over to him, latching an arm around his chest.

"It's pulling me in, I'm the new pilot!" The Doctor answered Amy, who was still listening to the conversation.

"Could you do it?" She asked, loud enough to be heard. "Could you fly the ship safely?"

"No, I'm way too much for this ship, same as Poet. If either of us touch that panel, if the planet doesn't blow up, the whole solar system does!" He was yanked forward yet again, now only inches from the panel, despite the digging heels of the Poet and every physical effort on his part. "No, worst choice ever, I promise you, stop this!" The Doctor yelled at the hologram. "It doesn't want everyone, Craig, it didn't want you!"

"I spoke to him and he said I couldn't help him!" Craig cried.

"It didn't want Sophie before today. But now it does. Why, what's changed?" The Doctor asked. The Poet hooked her arms under the one of his closest to the panel and continued pulling. "No! No, I gave her the idea of leaving! It's a machine that needs to leave! It wants people who want to escape, and you don't want to leave, Craig! You're Mr Sofa Man!" The Doctor took a breath, the Poet desperately trying to push him back. "You can shut down the engine. Put your hand on the panel and concentrate on why you want to stay!"

Craig looked between the Doctor and Sophie. "Will it work?"

"Yes!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes!"

"Is that a lie?"

"Of course it's a lie!"

"It's good enough for me. Geronimo!" Craig took a breath, slapped his hand down on his side of the panel and screamed. The Time Lord and Lady went stumbling back, but soon gained their footing and rushed over to Craig, writhing in pain on the panel.

"Craig!" The Doctor shouted. "What's keeping you here? Thank about everything that makes you want to stay here! Why don't you want to leave?" He promptly slapped Craig across the face.

"Gah! Sophie! I don't want to leave Sophie!" The Doctor grinned and nodded at Craig's words. "I can't leave Sophie, I love Sophie!" Sophie gasped and stepped up to Craig as the Doctor spun away, the Poet jumped over by him.

"I love you too, Craig, you idiot!" Sophie exclaimed and slapped her hand down on top of Craig's.

"Do you honestly mean it?" Craig laughed, though still seemed in pain from the time engine.

"I've always meant it! Do you mean it?"

"Of course I mean it. Seriously, though, do you mean it?"

"Yes!"

"And what about the monkeys?"

"Oh no, not again!" The Doctor yelled from the other side of the chamber. "Not now, Craig, the planet's about to burn. For god's sake_, kiss the girl_!"

"Kiss the girl!" The Poet sang.

"Kiss the girl!" Amy cried from the earpiece. Craig and Sophie laughed at each other and kissed. The Doctor took a breath and stepped back, gazing slack-jawed at the dying machine. The Poet sighed with relief, walked over to him. The hologram was really acting up now, asking for help in all three of its voices.

"Big yes!" Amy said.

"Big no." The Doctor replied. "Emergency shutdown. It's imploding. Everybody out! Out! Out!" They all ran for the door, the building shaking on its foundation and the electricity wavering wildly, and pounded down the stairs and burst out the main door into the sun. They looked up at the second floor, which vanished to momentarily revealed a space craft, which disappeared immediately after.

A man holding a young child walked by, unaffected. "Look at them." Craig stated curiously. "Didn't they see anything? The whole top floor just vanished."

"Perception filter." The Doctor muttered, now really relieved. "There never was a top floor."

-o-

The Poet was standing by the door, toying with the keys to the room she had briefly rented out. After a moment, she set them down on the table near the door. Craig and Sophie were in the parlour, and she really didn't want upset them. The Doctor walked in a moment later, stepped into the parlour, turned on his heel and walked right out again. He saw the Poet holding the keys and nodded. She smiled back at him and they both walked to the door.

"Oi!" The Gallifreyans stopped and turned at Craig's voice.

"What, you're trying to sneak off?" Sophie asked. They were both standing by the Time Lords now, smiling hugely.

"Yes, well, you were sort of . . ." The Doctor looked at them. "Busy." The humans chuckled and Craig picked up the keys the Poet had set down.

"I want you two to keep these." He said. The Doctor smiled a little and accepted them.

"Thank you. 'Cause we might pop by soon, have another little stay."

Craig laughed. "No, you won't, I've been in your head, remember? I still want you to keep them."

The Doctor smiled. "Thank you, Craig."

"Thank you, Doctor." Craig replied. "Thank you, Poet."

The Doctor nodded. "Sophie." The woman nodded back, smiling. She and the Poet hugged briefly, laughing a little. "Now, then. Six billion, four hundred thousand, twenty six people in the world." The Doctor clapped a hand on each of their shoulders. "That's the number to beat." The two Time Lords grinned at the humans, smiled at each other, and walked out.

They paused on the doorstep, looking down at the park. Sat there in the grass was the blue police box, just where it had first landed. Amy stepped out and, after looking quickly around, spotted the two and waved over at them. The Gallifreians waved back at her, grinning. The Poet took a breath, relieved that the perplexing ordeal was at an end. She and the Doctor began walking down to the park.

A glint of something drew her eye down to her hand. The Poet realised she was still wearing the fake wedding band, and twisted the ring off her finger. The little stone glimmered in the speckled sun as they passed beneath an oak tree. She tucked the ring back into her pocket and reached out to grab the Doctor's hand. She gently pulled the gold band from his hand and placed it back in her jacket.

"So," She said as they approached the TARDIS. "What now?"

"Not sure." The Doctor answered. He reached into his own tweed jacket and pulled out something wrapped in a red handkerchief. He glanced at the TARDIS door, as though wary of Amy seeing. "Forgot to show you this. I found it in the crack that absorbed Rory after he . . ." The Doctor lowered his voice, glancing again at the TARDIS. "After he died."

He unwrapped the thing and handed it to the Poet, who frowned down. It was a corner of splintered, burned wood. It was only about the size of her hand. It had blue trim with a white, though scorched, middle. There was black text on the sign, which seemed somehow familiar. Frowning even deeper, she held the corner up to the door of the police box. The text perfectly lined up with the instructional sign on the front door of the TARDIS.

"What does it mean?" She breathed, handing the broken TARDIS sign back to the Doctor. "Does the TARDIS . . .?"

"I'm not sure yet." He replied quietly. "But it can't be good." A moment of quiet passed as they contemplated the omen.

The Poet snapped her fingers as she remembered something. "We have to get Amy to write the note for us to lead us to the paper shop ad."

"Ah, right." The Doctor tucked the burnt shard back into his jacket. "Paradoxes. Nasty things." He opened the door and they bounded inside. Amy was waiting for them, leaning against a banister with a smug look on her face.

"So, you two have fun rooming together?" She drawled as the pair jumped up to the console, hitting a couple levers and thoroughly ignoring Amy's question. The Doctor pulled off his tweed and tossed it on a chair.

"Back in time," The Doctor said to Amy, circling back around to the Poet's side and tapping a few buttons. "You need to go to the paper shop, leave that note for us."

"Right little matchmaker, aren't you?" Amy chirped as the Doctor put a stethoscope on and put the end against the console. "Think you could find me a fella?"

"Oh, rectifier's playing up again." The Doctor complained, tossing the stethoscope back where it had been and bouncing down to the ground level. "Hold on. You write that note, and I'll change that will."

"You got a pen?" Amy called.

"Make sure it's a _red _pen." He called back. The Poet took the stethoscope and began putting it on different spots around the console, testing to hear how the rectifier was sounding. Past the buds, she could faintly hear Amy rifling through the Doctor's coat for a pen. The Poet circled back around, still frowning at the sound of the console, and stopped cold.

Amy was staring, wide-eyed, at a little red ring box in her hand. She popped it open and peered at the engagement ring inside; Rory's engagement ring. Rory, who no longer existed in Amy's memory. Rory, who had now never been born, ever. And now Amy was holding the last thing in the world that was his.

The Poet tossed the stethoscope to the side and cleared her throat a little. "Um, ah, I think I'll be off now. Hope the Doctor can take care of that rectifier, sounds nasty."

"You're leaving?" Amy looked up, snapping the box closed again.

"Yeah, better go find Alistair. He's had a long enough holiday, I should think." The Poet grinned, a bit anxiously as her eyes flicked to the red box. "Be seeing you soon, Amy. Tell the Doctor I said bye."


	14. Myths Come True I

_AGH! I'm sorry this one has taken longer, I've been stuck. God, it's like trying to climb out of a hole. Anyway, hope you like it! Thanks for continued reviews, alerts and favourites. They keep me going! On another note, __**there has been a request for fluff**__. Does anyone second this? 'Cause It's probably going to happen eventually, anyway, but I can't say I'm great at writing at it. So let's mix it up a little!_

_**I SHALL ISSUE A CHALLENGE! **__Send me your best "fluff" ideas, and whomever wins will have theirs used if you can get it to me by the end of the "season" (next chapter or two). Let's make this a good, clean (I mean, sorta, if you wanna swing that way ;)) game, and have fun. I'll take any idea that I can work in. And I mean any. _

_W'P_

"_Less than an hour before he'd congratulated himself on escaping all the traps of Earth, all the snares of Man. Not knowing that the greatest trap of all, the final and the fatal trap, lay on this present planet."__ –__Clifford D. Simak_

_-o-_

A red phone box, on a street once stranded but now occupied by a few passersby, faded in and out before solidifying completely. A moment later, the Poet poked her head out of the door and peered around the block in suspicion. She looked down at her watch and winced. Hopping out of the TARDIS, she stepped around to the flat building next to her and, with a quick breath, pressed the buzzer next to a rectangular white tag.

A little click went through the intercom, followed by a familiar voice. "Hello? Who is it?"

The Poet cleared her throat and held the button. "Uhm, I'm not exactly sure how long it's been . . ."

Nothing more came from the intercom. She waited a few minutes, awkwardly standing on the front step. Eventually, the door droned open. The Poet quickly entered the building and turned to the stairs, taking them with heavy anticipation but also with a sort of lightness of heart. She reached the correct landing and turned to the door. Sighing, she reached out and knocked.

Instantly, the door flew open to reveal an extremely cross-looking Alistair. The Poet couldn't help but wither a little under his freezing, icy stare. "So, ah—"

"Three. Years." He growled.

"Ooh." The Poet grimaced. "Sorry. The TARDIS led me off track a little."

"You have been gone. Three years." Alistair continued coldly. "I said I wanted a holiday! A _holiday!_ Do you even know what that word _means? _I mean, maybe 'holiday' means something different on Gallifrey, but three years is not a holiday unless you're pregnant and I am _not _pregnant."

"I'm sorry!" The Poet cried, throwing out her hands. "I can't help it!"

"You could've tried!"

"I _did_ try! Have you ever tried steering a multi-dimensional space-time Type Ninety-Nine TARDIS?"

"Okay, break it up, you two." Jonathan, his hair a little shorter now, pushed his way through the door and between the Poet and Alistair. He turned to the Time Lady and gave her a stern look. "Poet, you've been gone too long to be courteous." He turned to his partner. "Alistair, you need to calm down. Everyone makes mistakes."

The arguers each took a deep breath. The Poet shoved her hands into her pockets and Alistair crossed his arms. "You're right." The ginger finally admitted. "Fine, I'm being irrational."

"Thank you, Donovan." The Poet agreed, earning a disgruntled look from the other. "You wanna come with?" She jerked a thumb at the stairs.

"I . . ." Alistair looked back at his flat, then at Jonathan. He seemed almost pained. "I—"

"Hold that thought!" The Poet held up a finger, which she slowly rested on her lips. She listened, frowning hard. The humans seemed perplexed, clearly not hearing what the Poet heard. "My phone is ringing. Not the phone box phone, the TARDIS phone on the console."

"How can you _hear _that?" Jonathan asked in amazement.

"Hey," The Poet grinned a little, mostly in pride. "It's a Time Lord thing. Psychic connections and all that." She turned happily to Alistair. "So, don't want to rush you, but I kind of think I should answer that. You coming?"

Alistair made a helpless face and looked between his partner and then back at his flat, and then back to Jonathan. "Poet, I . . ." He seemed almost ready to say no. There was a raging conflict in his eyes as he battled with himself for moment. After a while of thinking, he sighed. "Yeah, I'm coming."

"What?" Jonathan exclaimed, obviously shocked by this turn of events. "Ali, why?"

"I . . . Oh, I don't know!" Alistair finally cried, exasperated. "I mean, when else do you get a chance like this? Twice in a lifetime, apparently." He took Jonathan's hands, and the Poet tried to hide her impatience—unsuccessfully. "Remember? It's a time machine, too. I'll be back in five minutes." The couple kissed, and the Poet, relieved, grabbed Alistair's hand and dragged him back down the stairs.

"So, where are we going, again?" Alistair asked, rubbing his chin. He had grown something of a beard during his three years of "holiday", and still seemed to be getting used to it.

"Oh, don't know yet, but I think I should answer that phone first." The Poet pushed Alistair into the TARDIS and hopped inside after. The phone had begun ringing again, but now it was actually audible outside of her specialised hearing.

"Poet's TARDIS, Poet speaking." She greeted, turning to lean back against the console.

"Poet, it's River Song." The other voice was female and very agnetizede.

"River?" The Poet asked, recalling the feisty blond woman from the crashed _Byzantium. _"Hi, what's going on? I assume this isn't a purely social call. Also, how did you get this number?"

River laughed, though there was something behind it. Anxiety? "Sorry, love. I hope you're not busy, but I need you to come to my location, immediately."

At her statement, the Poet stuck the phone between her ear and shoulder, walking around the console to trace the call's time date. The coiled wire trailed after her as she moved. "Ah, yes, of course. Why?"

"We found . . . a painting, and I think something else." She answered, lowering her voice. "And I think the Doctor's in danger. You were the first person I called. As a Time Lord like him, I need your opinion before he gets here."

The Poet pulled a few levers and cranked a handle counter-clockwise as the TARDIS launched. "Why me first? What's the painting of? What else did you find?"

"You're on your way?"

"Yes." The Poet replied. She waited for an answer, but the line was dead. River had hung up. Frowning, she set the phone back in its place. The TARDIS came to a halt, smoother, the Poet realised, than the Doctor's own. He probably was leaving the brake on.

The Poet stepped out and looked around, Alistair following. Her TARDIS had changed to fit the surroundings—she was ground-level with a group of Roman tents, accompanied by none other than Romans. Metal against metal clanged across the wide plain, from the marching soldiers to the smith not far from her. The flap of the TARDIS tent fell closed behind her as the Poet walked out a few steps.

A Roman came jogging over to her and knelt, a fist across his chest and head bowed respectfully. "Hail, Queen Isias. We are honoured by your presence. Cleopatra has eagerly anticipated your arrival."

The Poet, a little surprised at this, quickly caught on. "Um, well, arise, soldier. Take me to Cleopatra." As the soldier straightened up, the Poet caught a smear of red across his mouth.

"Why does he think you're royalty?" Alistair muttered as they began following him.

"It's River, Donovan." She replied quietly. "Hallucinogenic lipstick, I would guess. Seems very much her style."

The tent they were led to was larger than the others and obviously important. The delusional Roman bowed again and walked off as the Poet pushed open the tent flap and stepped inside. Immediately, her eyes were assaulted with shining gold and glinting jewels. The entire tent was packed with extravagant decorations and bags of spices that filled the air with exotic aromas. Two servants clad in white stood off to the side, heads bent in humility. On the far end, thin caramel curtains were draped over a divan with a dozen beaded pillows. Reclining there was River, smiling slyly. She was dressed in full Cleopatra garb, complete with a fluffy black wig to cover her light hair.

"You've certainly spared no expense." The Poet observed, clasping her hands behind her back and walking in a few more steps. Alistair was slack-jawed, staring at the golden room.

"Where's the fun in being frugal?" River swept up from the divan, jewelry clinking, and picked up a rolled piece of parchment from against the wall of the tent. "Here it is."

The Poet took the painting and stepped over to a table. "Who painted it?"

"Vincent van Gogh. It's one of his last works." River informed quietly as the Poet rolled out the painting on the table. Alistair subtly leaned over her shoulder to see it as well. The Poet sucked in a little breath at the sight. Her mind began working like an engine, her eyes flying across the canvas.

"What else did you find?" She breathed, and looking over at River. "You said you found something else, what is it?"

"Well, we didn't actually _find _it, but we know it's here." She paused. "The Pandorica."

The Poet barked a wry laugh. "The Pandorica is a fairy tale." She thought about it for a moment. "But, I suppose, after seeing a painting like this . . . I'm not really in a position to judge."

They all looked back down at the canvas. On it was depicted an image of the Doctor's TARDIS exploding in the stars, golden waves roiling out from the center to spilt the TARDIS apart into blue shards. The brushstrokes were definitely van Gogh; the entire canvas was covered in yellows and navy blues and gold. It was beautiful and horrible. The Poet quickly rolled it back up and placed it back where it had been.

"Let's just wait." She said, sitting down in one of the cushioned chairs. "The Doctor should be here soon. We can show him then." A thought occurred to her. "Did you use hallucinogenic lipstick on that poor Roman?"

"Weapon of choice." River winked and drifted back to the divan. "But a good gun does wonders when the lipstick fails. It never does, though."

"So, did you just come out here hoping to find the Pandorica and see what's inside?" The Poet plucked an apple from a gilded bowl and took a large bite from it, lowering her voice to muse more to herself. "I don't think it's going to just open up to us on command."

River clapped her hands twice, quick. The two servants stepped over, one man holding a plate of bread and oil, and the other pouring sloshing red wine into River's glass from a decanter. Alistair quickly helped himself to some of the bread before they backed off. As they moved back to their original places, the Doctor and Amy pushed into the tent. Amy's eyes agnetized immediately to the Poet, giving the Time Lady a look that she couldn't really decipher. It unnerved her a bit, so the Poet instead turned her attention back to the conversation that was happening.

"Hello, sweetie." River greeted the Doctor happily, taking a sip of her wine. The Time Lord looked quite irritated with River, and stormed across the tent to loom over her reclining form.

"You graffitied the oldest cliff face in the universe." He accused.

"You wouldn't answer your phone." River retorted. She clapped her hands again, and the servants walked out of the tent. She nodded over at the Poet, who reached down and picked up the painting. The Poet handed it to the Doctor, who took it with the slightest upward quirking of his mouth, like he was relieved to see her.

"What's this?" He asked.

"A painting. I believe you're well acquainted with Vincent." The Poet answered as the Doctor began to unroll it and lay it on the same table. River stood and came to look at it once again with them. "He had visions. We thought you should know about this one."

"Doctor?" Amy asked, clearly worried, as the Time Lord moved back a few steps to sit in the seat the Poet had just occupied. "Doctor, what is this? Why is it exploding?"

"We assume it's some kind of warning." River answered, glancing at the Poet.

"What, like something's gonna happen to the TARDIS?"

"It might not be that literal." River looked back to the painting an addressed the Doctor. "Anyway, this is where he wanted you. Date and map reference on the door sign, see?"

"Does it have a title?" The Doctor asked quietly.

"'The Pandorica Opens.'" She replied.

"The Pandorica? What's that?" Alistair, who had been somewhat left in the dark all this time, finally spoke up.

"A box, a cage, a prison." River said, the Doctor getting up to begin pacing in agitation. "It was built to contain the most dangerous being in all the universe."

"And it's a fairy tale, a legend. It can't be real!" The Doctor waved his hands to prove his point.

"If it is real, it's here and it's opening, which means it must have something to do with your TARDIS exploding." River's voice rose as well to match the Doctor's. The Time lord grabbed rolls of paper and began laying them over the painting. "It's buried, hidden, you aren't going to find it on a map!"

"Yes, but if you bury the most dangerous thing in the universe," The Doctor breathed, eyes lighting up as an idea occurred. "You'd want to remember where you put it."

-o-

Wind whipped around the five riders, whistling across the plains. Their horses galloped across the short, pale grass, snorting and tossing their heads. The Poet laughed loudly, holding the reins with one hand and keeping another firmly on her hat. She looked to the side, where Alistair was holding the reins with a grip so tight the Poet was surprised he didn't just rip the leather apart. They all kept on, riding their hearts out until their destination came into view: Stonehenge. The giant boulders, balanced atop one another, grew steadily closer.

Once near enough, the five hopped off their mounts. Alistair's foot got caught in a stirrup and his face hit the ground with a wince-worthy crunch. The Poet hurried over and helped untangle him from the saddle. The ginger popped up to his feet, trying to keep some of his dignity by brushing off the dirt and quickly moving on. The pair joined the others inside the ring of stones. The Doctor was spinning in a slow circle, staring intently at the boulders.

He and the Poet flicked out sonics in unison and began scanning Stonehenge in opposite directions. Amy and River were talking, and the Poet strained to hear what the conversation was about, but she was too far from them at that point. She moved to the inside of the ring, bending over a bit to run the blue light nearer to the ground. She met up with the Doctor at around the same point, having worked around. They exchanged a quick look before River spoke up.

"Doctor, Poet, I'm picking up fry particles everywhere. Energy weapons discharged on this site." River looked back down at her scanner. She had since changed out of her Cleopatra garb into something a little more suitable for riding horses and finding hidden boxes.

The Doctor hopped up onto one of the fallen stones, looking around below him. "If the Pandorica is here, it contains the mightiest warrior in all history. Now, half the galaxy would want a piece of that. Maybe even fight over it."

"Doctor." The Poet said. She was kneeling down, hat to the side, with one ear pressed against one of the rocks. "Listen here."

The Doctor copied her motion, and his eyes grew a little wider. "We need to get down there."

The next hour or so was spent setting up UV lights on tripods around Stonehenge as night fell, and making sure that there was in fact something under the rock that needed investigating. River was setting up little charges on the corners of the boulder. The Poet was on her hands and knees, sniffing and sonicing at the edge of the rock and grass when Amy approached her.

"Um, Poet, could I talk to you for a second?" She asked.

The Poet pushed her hat out of the way and continued around the edge. She turned her head a little to glance up at Amy. "Yeah, shoot." Amy paused, and though the Poet couldn't see what she was doing, she got the impression that she wanted to talk alone. The Time Lady got up, grabbing her bowler. "Okay, let's go over here, then."

Once they were out of earshot from the others, Amy reached into her pocket and brought out the reed ring box. Rory's ring box. She flipped it open to reveal the glinting stone inside. "Do you know anything about this?"

The Poet wasn't sure how to handle that. She couldn't say anything about Rory; Amy wouldn't get it. So the Poet did something that she was very good at: she lied. "No, I don't. Why? Should I?"

"I found it in the Doctor's jacket." Amy continued seriously. "Do you think . . . it's for you?"

Despite herself, and despite knowing what it really was, the Poet snorted a little. "Oh, my dear Amy. Even if the Doctor had any intention of marrying me, Gallifreian marriages are long and complex events that take serious planning ad preparations. He would have had to say something by now."

"Oh." Amy seemed even more confused after that, and pouted out a lip slightly as she put the ring back in her pocket.

The Poet looked over her shoulder as River secured the last charge. She beckoned to Amy, and they joined the other three at the end of the rock. River tapped a few icons on her scanner, and the charges were activated. There was a low creaking noise, like a forgotten door being opened. The cranking and grumbling continued as they watched on in apprehension. The rock made a grinding sound as it slid away to reveal a staircase that descended into darkness.

The Doctor stepped forward first, not tearing his eyes from the staircase as River pulled out a torch to shine down. "The Underhenge." The Doctor said. He brought out his sonic and took the first steps down the stairs. The humans went in after, and the Poet brought up the rear.

The group edged through the dark passage. There was not much light other than River's torch, but being in back made the Poet almost blind. Light wisps of cobwebs brushed her face. The stone beneath her feet scraped, sounding a little damp. The white light of the torch shone through in quick flashes, silhouettes of the others being briefly outlined before vanishing again.

Eventually the passage opened up into a larger room. At the end was a massive gate, a giant metal door. The Doctor walked over to the side and grabbed a brand from the wall, which he lit with his sonic. The Poet muttered something under her breath about not using the sonic like that as she took another from the other side of the door and lit it with the Doctor's. The flames growled as they turned and stood in front of the gate.

The Doctor reached up and threw off the wood beam across the door. It landed on the stone floor with an insultingly loud clatter. He looked to the Poet, and they nodded at each other in agreement. The Doctor had a knowing smirk on, the look of someone who is about to prove that the Loch Ness monster isn't real to a group of fanatic believers. After another second of anticipation, they pushed open the gate with a resounding creak. Bits of cobweb fell from the door as they exposed another, final room. Sitting in the middle, a few metres from them, was a large cube. Circles of intricately engraved designs were cut into each side. The Pandorica sat almost reverently amidst the curtains of regal webs, the think layers of dust. The room was massive, held up with great pillars of stone cut from the earth. Dead, brown vines were webbed over the large box, like a hatched roof.

"The Pandorica." The Doctor breathed, as though not believing it was actually there. His smart-arse smirk was long gone, replaced with a slightly awed look of disbelief.

"More than just a fairy tale." River countered, her tone now matching the Doctor's vanished look. The two Time Lords present looked at each other with apprehension even deeper than that felt at the top of the stairs, and the Doctor stepped forward. He walked slowly over to the Pandorica, the others trailing in his wake. The Poet looked down as her foot connected with something hard. She frowned at the disconnected arm of what looked like a Cyberman, dusty and old as time. She snapped out of it as Alistair brushed past her, also looking stunned.

The Doctor reached up slowly, almost reverently, to rest long fingers on the solid Pandorica. As he began to speak, it was unclear whether it was from stories he had read, or whether he was deciphering the circles of intricate engravings on the box itself. "There was…a goblin, or a trickster, or a warrior. A nameless, terrible thing, soaked in the blood of a billion galaxies. The most feared being in all the cosmos. And nothing could stop it or hold it, or reason with it. One day it would just drop out of the sky and tear down your world."

"How did it end up in there?" Alistair asked, stepping forward a little more.

"You know fairy tales." The Doctor replied, his voice still a low hum, his face still within breathing distance of the old metal. "A good wizard tricked it." He smiled and quickly strode away, leaving the others to inspect the chamber.

"I always hate good wizards in fairy tales," River sighed offhandedly as she grabbed the scanner from her belt. "They always turn out to be him."

The Poet handed her flaming brand off to Amy, who took it with slight hesitation, and though at first seemed surprised by its weight, quickly got hold of it as the Time Lady went of to sonic the perimeter. "So, it's like Pandora's Box, then?" Amy asked.

"Sorry, what?" The Doctor stuck the burning torch in a sconce in the wall and came back over.

"You know, the story. Pandora's Box, with all the worst things in the _world _in it." She spun around a little, drawing out the last couple words for theatrics. "That was my favourite book when I was a kid." The Doctor turned from the Pandorica to Amy, brow furrowed in thought. "What's wrong?"

"Your favourite school topic, your favourite story." The Poet was paying attention now, her head tilted over to listen. "Never ignore a coincidence." The Doctor turned suddenly away, waving his sonic. "Unless you're busy, in which case, always ignore a coincidence."

"Can you break into it?" River asked the Poet, snapping her away from the other two.

"Oh, yes." She answered. "It's easy breaking _into _a prison, trust me; but I'd rather like to know what's on the other side, first."

"You won't have long to wait." River addressed both of them now, looking between her scanner and the Pandorica. "It's already opening." The Doctor and Poet both knew this already. With their somewhat enhanced hearing, they could both detect the low grinding of metal and stone, like rusty gears. "It's got layers and layers of security protocols in there, and they're being disabled one by one. It's being unlocked from the inside."

"How long do we have?" The Doctor asked.

"Hours at most." River had her ear pressed to the metal, listening intently.

"What kind of security?" The Poet whispered. They had all lowered their voices now, like one would automatically like when in a church or library.

"Everything. Deadlocks, time-stops, matter-lines."

"What would need all that?"

"What could get past all that?" River countered, raising an almost better question.

"Think of the fear that went into making this box." The Doctor breathed, turning back to the worn Pandorica, circling slowly around, whispering with his face right next to the surface. "What could inspire that level of fear?" The Poet warily watched him as he leaned closer to it. "Hello, you . . . have we met?"

"So why would it start to open now?" River checked her scanner, which beeped, before addressing the pair.

"No idea."

"Mm, and how could Vincent have known about it?" Amy chimed in from across the room, not facing them. "He won't even be born for centuries."

"The stones." The Doctor strode forward, waving his sonic between the giant pillars. "They're transmitters, broadcastings a warning to everyone, everywhere, to every time zone. The Pandorica is opening."

"Doctor, everyone, everywhere?" Alistair sounded exceptionally skeptical.

"Even poor Vincent heard it in his dreams. But what's in there? What could justify all this?" The Doctor paced back and forth again to stand in his original position.

"Don't you think that if something was this powerful or dangerous, one of us would've heard of it before?" The Poet pondered aloud, staring at the carvings on the cube.

"Exactly my thinking; _why don't I know?_" He demanded, looking very aggravated.

"Wait," The Poet said, as a thought occurred to her. "If everyone can hear it, who else . . ." She trailed off, finishing the question in her head. She looked to the Doctor, a stricken look pasting itself on her features.

"Oh." The Doctor's expression was close to the Poet's.

"Oh? Oh, what's oh?" Amy asked worriedly.

River got it a second later, and rushed to the nearest pillar and pressed her scanner to it. "Okay, if it is basically a transmitter, we should be able to fold back the signal."

"Doing it!" The Doctor cried, and he and the Poet leapt into action.

"Doing _what?"_ Alistair demanded.

"Stonehenge is transmitting, it's been transmitting for a while . . ." River answered. "So who heard?"

"Feeding it back to you now, I should think." The Poet alerted them. "River, do you have anything out there?"

"Give me a moment." She answered.

"River, quickly, anything!" The Doctor called.

The look on River's face morphed into one of shocked horror. "Around this planet, there are at least ten thousand starships."

Amy made an incredulous, scoffing noise. "At least?"

"Ten thousand, a hundred thousand, one million—I don't know. There's too many readings."

"What kind of starships?" The Doctor asked.

His question was answered a moment later by a croaking, electronic-ish voice that echoed from the scanner. "Maintaining orbit." It squawked.

Then, a slightly lowered-pitched one: "I obey. Shield cover compromised on ion sectors."

"Oh, god." The Poet breathed. "Daleks?" The group continued to listen in fear as the two continued their conversation in their distinctive voices.

"Yes," The Doctor sighed eventually, clearly thinking hard. "Okay, okay, okay, okay, Dalek fleet. Minimum, twelve thousand battleships, armed to the teeth. Ah-h!" He spun around. "But we've got surprise on our side. They'll never suspect five people to attack twelve thousand Dalek battleships 'cause we'd be killed instantly. So it would be a fairly short surprise." He smacked his forehead with his sonic. "Forget surprise."

"Doctor, Cyberships." River said, her eyes glued to the scanner.

"No, Dalek ships." He corrected. "Listen to them, those are _Dalek ships._"

"Yes, Dalek ships and Cyberships."

"Well, we need to start the firefight, turn them on each other." He and the Poet nodded at each other in mutual agreement as River hurried to another pillar of stone. "That's easy, I mean, it's the Daleks, they're so cross . . ."

"Sontarans. Four battle fleets." River updated.

"Sontarans!" The Doctor exclaimed. The Poet was beginning to notice that he talked quite a lot more when he was getting anxious. "Talk about cross. Who stole aalll their handbags?"

"Terileptil." River continued. "Slitheen. Chelonian. Nestene. Drahvin." The Doctor began backing up, toward the Pandorica, as River continued. Once within arm's reach, the Poet found herself reaching out to grab his hand. "Sycorax. Haemo-Goth. Zygon. Atraxi. Draconian. They're all here, for the Pandorica."

The Doctor twisted around to stare at the box, looking now with new eyes. "What are you?" He asked. "What could you possibly be?"

The ground shook somewhat, and he turned on his heel and sprinted out, followed closely by the Poet. She heard the footsteps of the others come clattering after them, and a light crash and Amy dropped the brand. The emerged in the chill night in Stonehenge, gazes turned upwards. Whirring and blasting noises of engines assaulted their ears. Bright lights of different colours whirled across the sky, buzzing back and forth. The night was bright as day with thousands of enemy battle fleets lighting their way.

"What do we do?" Amy squeaked, staring with wide, terrified eyes.

"Doctor, listen to me." River said, her voice surprisingly steady. "Everything that ever hated you is coming here tonight. You can't win this, you can't even fight it." Her tone turned pleading. "Doctor, this once, just this one time, _please, _you have to run!"

"Run where?" He asked with heavy incredulity in his voice, painted over with a little bit of hopelessness.

"_Fight how?" _River yelled back.

The Doctor looked over to the Poet. She frowned at him questioningly for a second. He made a little motion with his hands. The Poet raised an eyebrow, which he shook his head to. Rolling her eyes, she reached into her jacket and tossed a little pair of binoculars to him.

The Time Lord peered through them, looking somewhere down the hill. "The greatest military machine in the history of the universe." He responded to River's question.

"What is?" Alistair called. "Daleks?"

"No. No, no, no, no, no." He lowered the binoculars. "The Romans."

He turned a little, his expression almost amused, as his gaze fell on River. Or, as the Romans would say, Cleopatra.

-o-

After sending River off to act queen to the Romans and rally some good Roman forces, the other four began meandering back to the Pandorica. There was only so much stewing one could do as one watched the whirring forces of the enemies in the sky. They silently went back down the stairs and into the Pandorica chamber. The two Time Lords gravitated to the Pandorica, aimlessly scanning it and inspecting the carvings.

"Amy thinks you're going to propose to me." The Poet said offhandedly. The Doctor peered around a corner at her.

"What, like marriage proposal?"

"Yep." The Poet scrubbed a bit of dirt off the Pandorica with her finger. "I told her that Gallifreian marriages took tons of planning and that it wasn't possible."

"Ah, yeah, totally impossible." The Poet quirked a brow at the Doctor's quick answer.

"Well, anyway, I just brought it up because she didn't seem very satisfied with my answer. Armed and ready if and when she approaches you." The Poet gave him a thumbs-up and went back to running her sonic in circles around the similarly shaped carvings.

"So, what does all this have to do with the TARDIS?" Amy called over.

"Nothing, as far as I know." The Doctor answered.

"But Vincent's painting; the TARDIS was exploding. Is that gonna happen?"

"One problem at a time." The Doctor said steadily, and straightened up. "There's force-field technology inside this box, if I can enhance the signal, I could extend it all over Stonehenge. Buy us a good half an hour."

"What good is half an hour?" Alistair snorted.

"There are fruit flies living on Hoppledom Eight that live for twenty minutes, and don't even mate for life." The statement seemed to end. Amy nodded skeptically and turned away. "There was gonna be a point to that." The Doctor said eventually. "I'll get back to you."

The Poet circled around the Pandorica, tapping a nail on the metal and listening. As she leaned in to press her ear to it, she caught a glimpse of Amy taking the red ring box from her pocket again, and took it as her cue. "Um, I think I'll go check for River." She said, jerking a thumb. "Be back in, ah, two ticks."

She emerged out into the chill air and took a deep breath. The flashing, glinting, blinding lights still danced in the air, almost beautiful if not for their malicious intent. The Poet glanced behind her as Alistair emerged, hands shoved into his pockets. "Hello." She greeted quietly.

"Hi." He replied. There was a short pause as they both stared up at the starships. "So, what happens now?"

The Poet lowered her head, bowing it almost in shame. "I don't know." She murmured. "Alistair, do you remember earlier today, when I came by to ask you to come with me again?"

"Well, yeah." Alistair answered with a little chuckle. "It was just this morning."

"Were you going to say no?" The look on his face said it all. The Poet sighed and looked back up. "You didn't have to."

"Yes, I did." Alistair answered immediately. "You know I did. It's not fair, sometimes, what you do. You're too fantastic and too brilliant and too lovely to ever say no to. I mean . . ." Here he stopped to shake his head. "After three years, you show up on my doorstep again, and I still can't resist coming with you. Now look where I am." He gestured up at the fleets. "I could be killed tonight; in all likelihood, I will be. But you know what?" Alistair grinned. "Travelling with you has been the second-best thing in my life so far."

"_Second_-best?"

"I'm married, Poet."

"Ah, right."

There was a pause, where the both of them seemed to be quite at peace. After a few beats, Alistair spoke again. "Hey, I've wanted to ask you something."

"Okay, go ahead."

"Why can't I understand Jadoon?" The Poet laughed at Alistair's random inquiry. "Well, I thought the TARDIS translated everything into what I understand."

"Sometimes it takes a while to kick in. Poor love never does so well with Jadoon." The Poet shrugged. "You probably never notice when I slide back into Gallifrey's native tongue, so I can at least give my TARDIS credit for that."

Alistair looked somewhat surprised. "What, you mean you speak different languages sometimes? You speak Gallifreian?"

"It's always good to test it out. I like your Earthian French; it's a little like Gallifrey's language. A little. And of course I speak it, I lived there for two hundred years." She rolled her tongue around before talking again. Now, her voice had something of a lilting accent to it. "Do you still hear English?"

"Yeah." Alistair responded.

"Ooh, good." The Poet grinned a bit smugly at the technology of her TARDIS. "I like this. English is a bit clumsy, though for your sake I do know how to speak it fluently and do so more often than not. Not now, obviously, but most times."

Alistair looked like he was about to say something, but they both spun around at the sound of screams and stones clattering from the Underhenge. Poet leading, they sprinted as fast as the broken stairs would let them and burst into the Pandorica chamber.

"What's going on down he—ah!" The Poet dove to the side as a few lasers shot from something on the ground, hitting the wall behind her.

"Watch it, Poet!" The Doctor called over. There were some grunting noises followed by the whirring of the sonic. After a couple seconds of nothing, the two gingers and the Time Lady hesitantly stepped out from behind their cover.

"Doctor, what are you doing?" Amy asked slowly. The Doctor was laying on the dusty floor, a Cyberman arm clutched in one of his, the sonic in his other hand. "Doctor?"

"Scrubbing its circuits. Stay where you are, it could be bluffing." He warned, glancing up briefly from his work.

"Bluffing?" Alistair scoffed. "It's an _arm._"

"I said stay where you are!" The Doctor cried, jumping to his feet. Amy crossed her arms and stuck out a lip in a pout, but stepped back where she had been.

In the next few seconds, several things happened almost at once. Amy cried out, and went sprawling on the floor, a thin wire wrapped around her leg, pulling her. The Doctor was electrocuted by the bluffing Cyber arm, and crumpled. And the same arm shot the Poet, stepping out from her cover to go try and help Amy.


	15. Myths Come True II

_Ooh, cliffhangers! Oh, my gosh, I just love reading all of your reactions. I was giggling like mad while reading them, it just cheers me right up! :D I'll think up some fluff to use at some point, since most of you seem to enjoy the idea. There should be some once the time allows…be patient, my loves… _

_Also, I'm really kicking these chapters out! :D _

_W'P_

"_So many miles and so long since I've met you/Don't even know what I'll say when I get to you/But suddenly, now, I know where I belong/It's many hundred miles and it won't be long." Leslie Feist and Ben Gibbards, "Train Song", 2009_

_-o-_

The first thing the Poet felt, after getting her bearings, was the startlingly vibrant pain.

Somewhere distant, there were orders being yelled and the clanking of armour. Feet were scuffing against the floor around the Poet's face. A few crunches as someone demolished the Cyber arm accompanied the sight of boots and sword sheathes. All of this paled, however, in comparison to that blinding pain. It was so sharp the Poet swore she could almost taste it, no, _smell it_. Or perhaps that was just the flesh of her leg burning away. At some point, someone, she suspected Alistair, began yanking her up into something of a sitting position, prying her out of the curled, fetal pose she had been in to clutch her calf.

The Poet groaned and looked at her hands, down at herself, and sighed in immense relief. "Whew. No regeneration. That would have been a bad time." She looked down at the person treating her, who had carelessly ripped off her lower trouser leg and was dabbing blood away. The Poet grinned, despite the continued pain. "Ha, Romans. Love a good Roman."

"Poet, are you okay?" Alistair clutched her shoulder tighter, warily watching the Romans and the Cyber arm.

The Poet waved a hand. "Psh, this little cut? This is noth—ow!" She hissed and flinched away on instinct as the clean cloth went further into the wound to clean it. The Roman began to quickly wrap bandages around the large, splotchy blotch of roasted skin and muscle that covered almost her entire lower leg. A few moments of patient waiting passed, and the Poet caught sight over the Roman's shoulder of the Doctor regaining consciousness after passing out from the electrocution. He staggered to his feet and, the Poet being directly in his line of sight, hurried over to her.

"Poet, what happened? Are you all right? Where's Amy?" He asked the three questions all in one breath, looking quite flustered.

"I was shot by the bluffing Cyber arm, I'm so-so now, and I think I saw Amy get dragged over there." The Poet nodded in the general direction of an off-room to the side, where another soldier already was. Even as she looked, she realised that there was a one-armed Cyberman stabbed against an open door.

The Doctor smiled in thanks and kissed her forehead affectionately before running down to the room, calling for Amy. The Poet grimaced as the Roman at her leg tightly tied off the bandage. She flung out an arm, and Alistair quickly helped her to her feet. "Thanks, Alistair." She gasped, leaning on her good leg and holding the other up. "Let's go see what's so interesting down there, eh?"

"Don't you think you should take a minute or two for a breather?" He asked in worry, though helped her along. "I mean, you were just shot. Badly, by the look of things."

"Really, Donovan?" The Poet asked sarcastically. "I didn't notice. No, I'm fine for the moment; I'll get myself a crutch before long, if I really need it."

They arrived at the doorway to the room. Amy was lying on a slab of stone, out cold. The Doctor was talking with the two Roman soldiers there, one who had his helmet off. "Good old River. How many?" The Doctor asked.

"Fifty men up top, volunteers." Rory answered, armour clinking as he shifted a little. "What about that thing?" He pointed to the Cyberman.

"Fifty? Not exactly a legion." The Poet joked as she hobbled in, leaning heavily on her ginger companion. "Hello, Rory."

"Oh, good, you're already walking, up and about." The Doctor smiled.

"You know me, can't stay still for long."

"Your friend was very persuasive," Rory spoke up, answering the Poet and drawing the Time Lords' attention. "But, ah, it was a tough sell."

"Yes, I know that, Rory, I'm not exactly one to miss the obvious." The Doctor replied, sounding somewhat impatient as he closer inspected the room they were standing in. "But we need everything we can get. Okay, Cyber weapons." He picked two large looking guns out of a box. "This is basically a sentry box, so headless wonder here was a sentry." He hit the dead Cyberman with one of the guns. "Probably got himself duffed up by the locals, never underestimate a celt."

"Doctor—" Rory tried to get a word in.

"Hush, Rory, thinking." The Doctor cut him off. The Poet realised something was a little off. There was something the two of them were missing. "Why leave a Cyberman on guard? Unless there's a Cyber-thing in the box, but why would they lock up one of their own? Okay, no not a Cyber-thing but what? What?" He made a noise of exasperation. "No, I'm missing something obvious, Rory! Something big, something right slap in front of me—I can feel it. Can you feel it?"

The Poet nodded, frowning, and glanced over at Alistair. "Mm, I know what you mean."

"Uh, Poet . . ." Alistair muttered, as he seemed to get it. It clicked in the Poet's mind a second later, what she and the Doctor had both been missing.

"Yeah, I think you are." Rory said with a short nod.

"I'll get it in a minute." The Doctor hitched the Cyber-guns over his shoulder and walked out of the sentry chamber.

At the same time, she heard a crashing of metal outside. A second or two later, the Doctor slowly stepped back into the room, staring quite intently at Rory. He deliberately moved up until he was right in Rory's face, lifted a finger, and gave his armoured chest a poke. Rory rocked back and forth a bit.

"Hello again." The Doctor said finally, quietly.

"Hello." Rory replied.

There was a pause. "How've you been?"

"Good. Yeah, good. I mean, Roman." Rory said back, and the two men sat there for a second.

The Poet raised an eyebrow, and was about to step in when the Doctor spoke again. "Rory, I'm not trying to be rude, but you died."

"Yeah. I know. I was there." Rory replied wryly.

"Wait," The Poet yanked Alistair with her as she stepped painfully forward. "You didn't just die, you were erased from time. You never existed. You were never born, at all, ever."

"Good to see you again, too, Poet." Rory said, his tone as dry as a desert. "Erased? What does . . . that mean?"

The two Time Lords exchanged equal looks of shock, before turning back to the improbable person in front of them. "How can you be here?" The Doctor hissed.

Rory actually seemed at a loss for words for a few moments. "I don't know." He finally got out. "It's kind of fuzzy."

"Fuzzy . . ." The Doctor breathed.

"Well, I died, and turned into a Roman. It's very distracting." Rory turned to the unconscious Amy, laying one hand on her arm and another on her head, gently caressing her bright hair. Amy made a little noise, like when one sleeps, before settling again. "Did she miss me?" Rory asked.

The Poet looked over at the Doctor, both knowing what would happen when Amy woke up. The Poet opened her mouth to speak, but stopped when the room lurched. There was a echoing, banging noise from outside the room. The Doctor sprinted out, followed by Rory. Men, Romans, began yelling orders and scattering around. The Poet inwardly cursed the dead Cyberman as she and Alistair limped out of the sentry box to see the Pandorica showing signs of life. The spaces between engravings were glowing with a low green colour, and the gear-like carvings were shifting and rolling against one another to create a rather eerie affect of the box being alive.

"The final phase." The Doctor said in wonder. "It's opening."

The already deafening noise of the Pandorica clanking open was only rivaled by the increasingly loud sounds of the starships outside. Sensing impending danger, the Romans, including Rory, went running up the stairs. The Poet, now that her leg had numbed over a bit, let go of Alistair and tried running up after them but stopped with a cry on the first step. The ginger sighed, promptly scooped the Time lady up and jogged up after the others.

Outside, it was brighter than ever and the starships were getting bold, dipping down closer to Earth and heaving back up again. Once they all seemed to realise people were outside, blinding lights began to snap down on the crowd like spotlights.

As the gathered looked around in horrified awe, there came the sound of feedback from a microphone. Then, though no one could see him, the Doctor began to speak. "Sorry, sorry, dropped it." He raised his voice. "Hello, Stonehenge! Whoever takes the Pandorica, takes the universe! But, bad news, everyone . . ." He jumped up on one of the boulders in Stonehenge, grinning wildly around, hair flying in every direction. "'Cause guess who? Ha!"

"Listen, you lot," He went on. "You're all whizzing about, and it's really very distracting, so could you all just stay still for a minute? Because _I_ . . . _am . . . TALKING!" _He roared the final word, and through the microphone it echoed all the way up, bouncing amongst the stars. And, miraculously, the starships all quickly came to a decisive and quiet halt.

"Now, the question of the hour is, who's got the Pandorica? Answer, I do, next question. Who's coming to take it from me?" He held out his arms, dramatically gesturing to the gathered enemies. "Come _o-on! _Look at me—no plan, no backup, no weapons worth a damn. Oh, and something else. I don't have anything, to, lose. So if you're sitting up there in your silly little spaceship with all your silly little _guns, _and you've got any plans on taking the Pandorica tonight, just remember who's standing in your way. Remember_, _every black day I ever stopped you_. _And then, _and then! _Do the smart thing." He took a small breath. "Let somebody else try first." The Doctor threw out his arms in a challenge, spinning in a slow circle.

The Poet, like so many others, had adored the Doctor the day she met him. But as she watched him stand there, challenging thousands, millions of starships and watching them _run, _she could finally pinpoint the exact moment she loved him. Looking back, she would find a hundred others where she could have said the same, but it was not until that specific second that she knew the true effect that the Doctor's actions had had on the entire universe, and knew that he was more important than any of them standing there, and that she loved him more than she loved Alistair, or her TARDIS, or even her dead, burning planet. That from then on, he would be just as integral a part in her life as breathing, and the beating of her two hearts.

"That'll keep them squabbling for half an hour." The Doctor announced, tossing the mic down to have the Poet catch it. She fumbled, still reeling somewhat from her second-long epiphany that had something of an anticlimactic surfacing to reality. He looked around at the people around him, mostly soldiers; the fifty advertised by Rory, in fact. "Romans!" And he marched off toward the entrance to the Underhenge.

"Come on." Alistair nudged the Poet, and the pair slowly began shuffling down the stairs. It was slow working, and about halfway down they passed a familiar face.

"Oh, hi, Poet." Amy said tiredly. She seemed a bit out of it from being knocked out. "What happened to you?"

"Ah, you know. Cyberman arm, working laser gun. It was bound to happen." The Poet shrugged as best she could in the awkward tilted position she was in. "Get some fresh air."

The Poet and Alistair made it down to the Pandorica chamber to see the Doctor and Rory finishing up what looked like an argument. Rory spun on the Poet instantly as they arrived, looking panicked. "Poet, how can I never have existed?"

"Cracks in space and time were leaking pure time energy and when you died you were absorbed by one that happened to be nearby, henceforth erasing you from space and time, henceforth meaning you were never born." She answered without hesitation as Alistair directed her to something that vaguely resembled a bench. "It's not really rocket science, Rory. Thanks, Alistair." She sighed as she sat down.

"No problem. Please stop moving around, you're starting to get heavy." Alistair rolled his shoulder with a grimace.

"There are cracks, cracks in time. There's going to be a huge explosion in the future on one particular day." The Doctor said, running his sonic around the Pandorica's glowing engravings. "And every other moment in history is cracking around it."

"How does that work?" Rory seemed very irritated now, frustrated by Amy's lack of remembering him. "What kind of explosion? What exploded?"

The Doctor seemed to be thinking back on something, lost in his train of thought for a moment. The Poet suddenly remembered something, something that she had almost forgotten about. Back in a green park on Earth, under oak trees and sunlight, she had been shown something very disturbing. The broken and burnt corner shard of what looked like the Doctor's TARDIS' front door sign.

"Doesn't matter." The Doctor's voice snapped her from her reverie. "The cracks are everywhere. Get too close to them and you can fall right out of the universe."

"So I fell through a crack and now I was never born?" Rory asked, as though the very idea was absurd. Maybe it was.

"Basically." The Doctor tapped something into a scanner.

"Well, how did I end up here?"

"I don't know. You shouldn't have." The Doctor whirled around and stalked over to Rory. "What happened? From your point of view, what physically happened?"

"Um, I was in the cave, with you and Amy." Rory said, frowning. "I was dying. A-and then I was just here, a Roman soldier. A proper Roman. Head full of Roman . . . stuff. A whole other life. Just here, like I'd woken up from a dream. I started to think it was a dream. You, and Amy, and Leadworth." He turned away and paced back. "Then today, in the camp, the men were talking about the visitors. The girl with the red hair." Rory laughed dryly, cruelly, like he was laughing at himself. "I thought you'd come back for me. But she can't even remember me!"

"Oh, shut up." The Doctor said loudly.

Rory seemed a bit shocked. "What?"

The Doctor, a sly smile on his face, reached into his jacket and tossed something small and red and resembling a ring box to the Roman. Rory looked inside, and stared at the ring with a lost expression, like he was looking at an artifact from his childhood, long forgotten.

"Go get her." The Doctor said confidently.

"But, I don't understand. Why am I here?"

"Because you are." The Doctor answered simply. "The universe is big. It's vast and complicated and ridiculous, and sometimes, very rarely, impossible things just happen and we call them miracles." If the Poet had blinked, she would have missed the briefest of glances the Doctor passed her. "And hat's the theory. Nine hundred years, never seen one yet, but this would do me. Now get upstairs. She's Amy, and she's surrounded by Romans. I'm not sure history can take it."

After a moment of consideration, Rory nodded slightly, snapped the ring box closed and turned to go up to the surface. Alistair slowly turned to look at the Poet, absently turning her sonic on and off. "Um, actually, I think I'll go up there, too. You know, to check out Romans and Roman-y . . . stuff. You'll be all right?" He asked the Poet.

She nodded. "Yea, I don't think I'll spontaneously combust just sitting down here. But thanks." Alistair nodded and hurried away.

The Doctor continued closely inspecting the Pandorica for a couple minutes and, once apparently satisfied that it wasn't changing radically any time soon, came to sit next to the Poet. He looked down at her bandaged leg, which was now exposed, as the Roman medic who had bandaged it had ripped her trouser leg away to get at the wound.

"Are you really okay?" He asked.

"Well, it hurts like nothing else and some part of me wishes it would have hit something major so I would've regenerated." The Poet sighed. "But, yeah, I think I'm okay. Thanks." She looked at the glowing Pandorica. "So what do you think's inside?"

"No idea, right now." The Doctor replied, seeming somewhat disappointed. "Still working on that one."

"Ooh, maybe it's empty. Wouldn't that be something. Don't know what it would be. Something, that's for sure." She chuckled at herself. "I'm just going on now. I think it's the leg. Anyway, that was a pretty good speech up there."

"I thought it was all right; at least it'll keep them arguing for a while." The Doctor said modestly.

"You know, I just remembered." The Poet said brightly as the memory came to her unexpectedly. "The other year I met the most intriguing man. I can't quite get his name right now, something with an 'L', or maybe a 'J'. Anyway, he mentioned you a couple times in passing. Apparently you were cohorts of a sort for a while. Or, as he said, "partners in crime"."

"Really?" The Doctor seemed intrigued. "Anything else?"

"Yeah." The Poet rubbed her chin, thinking back. "He had this habit of being unable to die. He'd get shot or something and just pop back up. Interesting one, him. Kept trying to flirt with me, but I think he did that with almost anything that moved. He flirted with Alistair, too." The Doctor muttered something under his breath. "Sorry, what was that?"

"Oh, nothing. Will you look at that! More Romans." The Doctor changed the subject as a few soldiers came down into the chamber.

"Oh! Now I remember!" The Poet exclaimed to herself. "He was from the Bo star system! He said he was sometimes called The F—"

"Ah, moving on, love." The Doctor said quickly, standing up. "Do you need some help?"

"Oh, I think I'm okay now." The Poet stood up, yelped at the sudden sharp blasts of pain to her leg, and was on her way to falling if the Doctor didn't grab her round the middle and pull an arm around his neck. "Maybe not so okay." The Poet laughed, turning her face a little to hid some of the pink flushing her cheeks.

They walked over to the Pandorica, watching the circles on the sides. Once mostly stone, they were now almost completely unwound, leaving the geometrical green circle-ish patterns in their place.

The Doctor, now frowning, pulled out the scanner that doubled as a microphone and mobile and hit a couple buttons. "The TARDIS, where is it? Hurry up." He paused, his face turning to one of concern. "What are you even doing there?" He listened for a moment, glancing over his shoulder at the soldiers behind them. "Something is using her memories, Amy's memories. You said something had been there?

If they've been to her house, they could've used psychic residue. Structures can hold memories, that's why houses have ghosts. They could've taken a snapshot of Amy's memories but why?" The hand supporting the Poet, on her hip, had begun to clench with worry. She winced and shifted, and the Doctor warily looked around the corner of the Pandorica again. "Projections, or . . . duplicates . . . they might think they're real. The perfect disguise. They actually believe their own cover story. Right until they're activated." The Poet reached down and pried his fingers off of her, as they were actually beginning to hurt, and leaned against the Pandorica as the Doctor began to pace around, hissing into the scanner-mobile. "But why? Who'd do that? It doesn't make sense! River? River, _what's happening?_" He made a face. "You're flying it wrong. Where are you? What's the date reading?"

An expression of utter shock, bordering fear, passed over the Doctor's face. "You need to get out of there, now. Any other time zone, just go. Well, then shut down the TARDIS! Shut down everything!" The Doctor continued pacing, stalking back and forth to create small clouds of dust around his feet. "But how? Why?"

A long, very high-pitched ringing started up, sounding like it was coming from the Pandorica. The Poet quickly pressed her fingers to her ears, wincing at the piercing nature of the tone. She hopped on one foot to the edge of the Pandorica and leaned around it to see the Roman soldiers slumped over at the waists but still standing. They dropped their burning torches to stand there, like half-inflated balloons.

"Listen to me, just land her, anywhere, emergency landing, now." The Doctor commanded, holding a finger in his ear and speaking up over the screeching tone. "There are cracks in time, I've seen them everywhere, and they're getting wider."

"Doctor . . ." The Poet said, but he likely couldn't hear her. The Romans were straightening up again, their eyes now blank and staring.

"The TARDIS exploding is what causes them but we can stop the cracks ever happening if you just _land her." _

"Doctor!" The Poet began hopping desperately away from the Pandorica, which had begun to crank open. A star of bright white light shone through a crack between two sides, growing brighter and more blinding as the Pandorica slid open.

The Doctor glanced over and saw the Poet trying to move away from the opening box, and moved over to hold her up. "Well, now." He murmured, eyes fixated on the beaming light from the Pandorica. "Ready to come out now, are we?" He picked up the scanner-mobile and listened for a moment. "Just walk out the doors, if there's no one inside the TARDIS engines shut down automatically. "Get _out _of there. _Run!" _He began sonicing the glowing line of light.

The Poet looked over her shoulder, twisting a little to see. The Roman soldiers who had been slumped over were now marching toward them, their hands out like guns. In fact, their fingers had folded down to reveal actual gun-like barrels in their hands. "Doctor!" The Poet said urgently. He looked over at the Romans, and the same thought occurred to them simultaneously. "Alistair!"

"Amy!"

Two soldiers stepped forward and promptly pushed the Poet off to the side. She hopped on her good foot for a second, lost her balance and plopped down on her bum. The Romans grabbed the Doctor by the arms and began half pulling, half dragging him toward the Pandorica, the Time Lord babbling all the while. Another pair grabbed the Poet and pulled her to her feet, earning a small yell of pain as they paid no regard to her leg, and blankly pulled her along behind the Doctor.

"Plastic Romans, duplicates, driven by the Nestene consciousness, eh? Deep cover, but what for? What are you doing?" He looked around as they stopped before the Pandorica, and whispered something that the Poet couldn't hear from where she was.

"The Pandorica is ready." The two Romans intoned together in a monotone.

"What you mean it's opening?" The Doctor tried twisting around to see behind him.

"You have been scanned." A familiar voice squawked. The Doctor froze, and the Poet looked up. "Assessed. _Understood."_ A white Dalek rolled over to the Time Lord, and two more, yellow and red, teleported behind it. "Doc-tor."

"Scanned?" The Doctor was actively struggling now. "Scanned by what, a box?"

"Your limits and capacities have been extrapolated." The white Dalek buzzed. A few Cybermen, shiny and new, appeared off to the side, along with a small troop of Jadoon and a few Sontarans.

"The Pandorica is ready!" The leading Sontaran yelled.

"Ready for what?"

"Ready for you." The Dalek answered. The Poet craned her neck to look as the Pandorica opened fully to reveal, in fact, an empty chair. She would have laughed at her own prediction if not for the dire situation they were in. She wondered where Alistair had got off to, and hoped he wasn't injured or, heaven forbid, dead, what with all the murderous Romans everywhere.

A sensation of hopelessness suddenly engulfed her. There was no way out. She watched as the Doctor dug in his heels, the plastic Romans dragging him toward the open Pandorica. Three or four of dozens of different species watched on as well, expressionless, mostly. The Poet pulled futilely against the arms of the Romans holding her, screaming at them to stop. They put the Doctor's hands onto the arms of the chair, which had clamps that locked around his wrists. As they did, he stopped struggling, like he knew it was over.

"You lot, working together," He sighed, looking around at his enemies. "An alliance. How is that possible?"

"The cracks in the skin of the uni-verse." The white Dalek buzzed.

"All of reality is threatened!" The leading Sontaran exclaimed.

"All universes will be deleted." A Cyberman said.

"What?" The Doctor asked. "And you've come to me for help?"

"No!" The Sontaran snapped. "We will save the universe—from you!"

"From _me?_"

"All projections correlate. All evidence concurs." The Cyberman said. "The Doctor will destroy the universe."

The Doctor seemed to realise what they were saying. "No, no, no, you've got it wrong."

"The Pandorica was constructed to ensure the safety of the Alliance." The Cyberman went on, disregarding the Doctor completely.

"A scen-ario was devised from the memories of your com-pan-ion." The Dalek added, referencing Amy.

"A trap the Doctor could not resist!" The Sontaran stepped forward.

"The cracks in time are the work of the Doctor." The Time Lord was hanging his head now, like the electronic voice of the Dalek was physically hurting him. "It is confi-irmed."

"No, no, no, not me. The TARDIS. And I'm not in the TARDIS, am I?"

"Only the Doc-tor can pilot the TAR-DIS."

"Please, listen to me . . ."

"You will be pre-vent-ed."

"Total event collapse!" The Doctor cried. "Every sun will supernova at every moment in history! The whole universe will never have existed, _PLEASE, listen to me!_"

"Seal the Pandorica." The Cyberman commanded.

"Doctor!" The Poet lunged forward and felt like her arms were ripping out in the grip of the Romans.

"Please, listen to me! The TARDIS is exploding right now, and I'm the only one who can stop it! _Listen to me!_" The Doctor's voice trailed off as the Pandorica slid shut, closing him off from the world. And as that happened, as the final bit of space between sides of the Pandorica sealed shut, the universe ended.

-o-

The Poet sat on the ground, resting her head in her hands. Her bad leg was stretched out, her other folded underneath her. She playing with a pile of dust on the floor, a remnant of one of the Romans who had been holding her. Her bowler hat was sitting to the side, and she tiredly brushed some dirt off of it. Picking the hat up, she held it in her hands. "Never lost you yet, have I?" She smirked. "Now the universe is dead, and I've still got you. I wonder if I'll just keep you around forever, now?"

The Poet started in surprise as the Doctor suddenly appeared in front of her, wearing a red fez and holding a classic mop in one hand. She grimaced and held her leg. "Poet! Ooh, good, you're still down here. Listen, Rory's going to come down here in a second to get me out of the Pandorica with my sonic, thought I'd warn you."

"What are you doing out here?" She asked. "I thought you were in the Pandorica."

"Well, I am. I mean, not now, but when you are, I am. That's why Rory's got my sonic." He waved the mop around. "Anyway, don't bother going back to your TARDIS, it's too far off from the Pandorica to have been saved, but wait for me to get the vortex manipulator. Don't worry your pretty head about anything, I gave Rory instructions, he should be along promptly."

"Can do. You know where Alistair is?"

"Oh, he's fine. Bit roughed up, but fine. Okay, gotta dash, but I'll see you pretty quick." He saluted with the mop and disappeared with a little puff of smoke.

A few seconds later, Rory came down the stairs, looking very drawn-out, and holding the Doctor's sonic. He saw the Poet and helped her to her feet, then shuffled over to the TARDIS and aimed the sonic at the door-corner. It slid open to show the Doctor staring out at them, frowning. The clamps on his ankles, wrists and head opened up.

"How did you do that?" The Doctor asked.

"You gave me this." Rory held up the sonic, and the Doctor pulled his out of his jacket; the same one.

"No, I didn't."

"You did, look at it." Rory stated bluntly, like it was obvious. And, in short, it was. The Doctor got down from the Pandorica and carefully, slowly began to rest the screwdrivers against one another. A second before they touched, they shot apart like opposing magnets and sparked, making all three jump.

"Temporal energy." The Doctor figured, levering the Poet off of Rory. "Same screwdriver, at different points in its own time stream. Which means it was me who gave it to you. Me from the future. I've got a future, that's nice." He pointed his sonic at what looked like a statue. "That's not."

It was a Dalek, from right before the universe ended when the Doctor was being put into the Pandorica. It was covered in what looked like thick dust, but the Poet was certain that the Dalek was in fact dead, crusted over with stone. It was in front of some of its fellows, but it wasn't alone. Roman soldiers, half-disintegrated, reached out to them from the ground. Large piles of gray dust sat around, the more unfortunate victims of the universe's end.

"The universe has collapsed." The Doctor said. "Whole races have been deleted. These are just like after-images. Fossils in time. Footprints of the never-were."

"Well, that doesn't sound good." Alistair called over. He was coming down from upstairs, looking very frazzled and scuffed up. "Hey, all. Things were pretty mad up there for a while; what happened?"

"Ah, good to see you, Alistair." The Doctor greeted. "Total event collapse. The universe literally never happened."

"So how can we be here?" Rory asked. "What's keeping us safe?"

"Nothing. Eye of the storm, that's all. We're just the last light to go out." Something seemed to occur to the Doctor. "Amy. Where's Amy?"

Rory made a pained face, but said nothing and simply motioned for them to come back up to the Stonehenge. Alistair followed fairly quickly, but stopped and looked back at the two Time Lords. "Poet, you coming with me?"

"I'll take her off your hands for a while, Alistair, old boy. Give your shoulder a break." The Doctor answered. Alistair nodded and jogged up after Rory, leaving the pair to bring up the rear. They emerged up in the grass, where a couple weak fires still flickered. Amy was lying on the ground, mostly covered in a blanket. The Poet hopped off to sit on a convenient piece of stone, while the Doctor knelt to pull the blanket away from Amy's slack face.

"I killed her." Rory lamented.

"Oh, Rory." The Doctor sighed.

"Doctor, what am I?" Rory sounded on the verge of crying.

"You're a Nestene duplicate. A lump of plastic with delusions of humanity." The Doctor answered bluntly.

"But I'm Rory now!" The Roman protested. "Whatever was happening, it's stopped! I'm Rory!"

"That's just software talking." The Poet added quietly as the Doctor checked the results of his sonic's scan of Amy's body.

Rory shook his head, like it was too terrible to believe. To him, it probably was. "Can you help her? Is there anything you can do?"

"Yeah, probably, if I had the time." The Doctor stood and tucked the screwdriver back in his pocket.

"The _time?_" Rory demanded angrily.

"All of creation has been wiped out of the sky." The Doctor helped the Poet up as she threw her arm around his shoulders. "Do you know how many lives now never happened? All of the people who never lived? Your _girlfriend _isn't more important that the whole universe."

The Doctor was flung to the ground as Rory spun him around and punched him in the face. The Poet went toppling over, gritting her teeth as she stumbled onto her leg. "_She is to me!" _Rory bellowed at the Doctor.

A second passed, and the Doctor hopped back onto his feet with a laugh, rubbing his jaw. "Welcome back, Rory Williams!" He spun to face the still-seething Rory. "Sorry, had to be sure. Hell of a gun-arm you're packing, there." He bent down to pick the Poet back up off the ground, the Time Lady snatching her hat on the way up. "Sorry to you too, probably should have waited helping you up. Are you all right?"

"I'll be fine. I've gotten used to the searing pain every time I set weight on my leg." The Poet replied, her tone just bordering on wry.

The Doctor cleared his throat. "Right, we need to get her downstairs." He said, addressing Rory. "And take that look off your plastic face. You're getting married in the morning. Alistair, mind giving our friendly neighbourhood Roman a hand with his fiancée?"

"Sure, no problem." Alistair picked up Amy's feet and Rory cradled her red head, and together they carefully brought the woman down into the Pandorica chamber, the Time lords following behind again. Once down there, on direction from the Doctor, they began strapping her into the Pandorica.

"So, you've got a plan, then?" Rory asked hesitantly.

"Bit of a plan, yeah." The Doctor answered. "Memories are more powerful than you think, and Amy Pond is not an ordinary girl. Grew up with a time crack in her wall. The universe pouring through her dreams every night. The Nestene took a memory print of her and got a bit more than they bargained for. Like you. Not just your face but your heart and your soul."

He carefully passed the Poet, who was getting increasingly more irritated of being passed around from person to person, back to Alistair and stepped forward to Amy, who was now securely in the Pandorica. He rested his hands on either side of her face and let his eyes close. "I'm leaving her a message for when she wakes up. So she knows what's happening." Then he bounced down and, taking out his sonic, closed the Pandorica.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, what are you doing?" Rory asked, panicked.

"I'm saving her." The Doctor answered simply. "This box is the ultimate prison. You can't even escape by dying. It forces you to stay alive."

"But she's already dead!"

"Well, she's mostly dead. The Pandorica can stasis-lock her that way. Now, all it needs now is a scan of her living DNA, and it can restore her."

"And where's it going to get that?" Rory asked.

The Doctor checked his watch. "In about two thousand years." He knelt down next to the Pandorica, where there was a satchel that the Poet recognised as River's. The Doctor reached inside and brought out something that he strapped to his wrist.

"She's going to be in that box for two thousand years?" Rory asked incredulously.

"River's vortex manipulator." The Doctor said instead on answering. "Rubbish way to time travel, but the universe is tiny now, we'll be fine."

"So hang on, the future's still there, then? Our world?"

"A version of it. Not quite the one you know." The Doctor finished strapping on the manipulator. "Earth alone in the sky, let's go have a look." He held out his wrist. "Put your hand there. Don't worry. Should be safe."

"That's not what I'm worried about." Rory said, and turned to the Pandorica.

"She'll be fine, Rory." The Poet assured in what she hoped was a soothing tone. "Nothing can get into that box."

Rory scoffed a little and pointed at the Doctor. "He got in there."

"Well, there's only one of me." The Doctor said. "I counted."

Rory didn't seem to be paying attention. "This box needs a guard. I killed the last one."

"No. Rory, no, don't even think about it." The Doctor said immediately.

"She'll be all alone."

"She won't even feel it!"

"You bet she won't."

"Two thousand years_, _Rory. You won't even sleep. You'd be conscious every second. It would drive you _mad." _The Doctor insisted.

"Will she be safer if I stay?" Rory asked quietly, and then turned dangerously to the Doctor. "Look me in the eye and tell me she wouldn't be safer."

The Doctor sighed, seeing that he had been backed into a corner. "Rory, you—"

"Answer me!" Rory demanded.

There was a pause as the two men stared at each other. "Yes." The Doctor finally answered. "Obviously."

"Then how could I leave her?" Rory muttered, looking back to the box.

The two Time Lords looked at each other, equally exasperated by his stubbornness. "Rory, why do you have to be so . . ." The Doctor searched for the right word. "Human?"

"Because right now I'm not." Rory leveled his gaze with the Doctor, and in the instant, it seemed that Rory became more than the stumbling, awkward fiancé of feisty Amy Pond. He was a being with resolve, with humanity enough to let him wait two thousand years without the blink of an eye in hesitation.

The Doctor nodded, knowing there was no changing Rory's mind. He reached out and took the Poet back, typing a few commands into the vortex manipulator. Alistair stepped over as well, putting his hand on the underneath of the wristband. "Listen to me," The Doctor said. "This is the last bit of advice you're going to get in a very long time. You're living plastic, but you're not immortal. I have no idea how long you'll last.

And you're not indestructible! Stay away from heat and radio signals, when they're invented. You can heal or repair yourself." Rory put on his Roman helmet, complete with line of red feather down the middle. "Any damage is permanent." The Doctor made sure that Alistair was holding the manipulator, and the Poet had her hand on top, before putting an arm securely around her waist to hold her up. "So, for god's sake, however bored you get, stay out of—"

The trio vanished with a puff of smoke.


	16. The Big Bang

_So, this should be the last chapter for season five, and if I want to get creative, maybe the second-to-last. For now, enjoy. No, now I think about it, second-to-last. Anyway, have fun! Fluff next chappie, I hope. Don't hate me if it's bad._

_W'P_

-o-

"Trouble!" The Doctor finished his final warning to Rory, but realised he had already hit the button and travelled. The three had appeared in the National History Museum, clearly during nighttime hours. The Pandorica loomed on a short stand behind them, as well as a very alive Amy and a small red-haired girl who the Poet could only guess was a young Amy—little Amelia.

"Ugh . . ." Alistair groaned upon arrival, staggering to the side. The Poet hissed and hopped up onto her good foot, leaning heavily on the Doctor.

"Oh, two of you!" The Doctor exclaimed upon seeing the Ponds. "Complicated."

"_EXTERMINATE!" _A Dalek, looking much like the one they had seen two thousand years back, was rolling toward them. "Weapons systems restoring!"

The Doctor dashed forward, grabbing Amy and Amelia's hands. "Come along, Ponds!" He cried, and dashed off. Alistair, at a loss, quickly picked the Poet up and ran as best he could after them. They jogged around to the other side of the Pandorica and almost crashed into an exhibit displaying an old market. The Doctor actually _did _crash into it, knocking over one of the mannequins, fumbling a red fez.

"What are we doing?" Amy asked.

"We are running into a dead end, where I'm going to have a brilliant plan which basically involves not being in one." The Doctor answered, looking worriedly out at the Dalek.

A bright beam from a torch shone down the hall, along with the voice of the night watchman. "What's going on?"

The Doctor, Ponds and Alistair, carrying the Poet, all came over to the side of the Pandorica and peered out. "Get out of here, go! Just run!" The Doctor told them.

"Drop the de-vice!" The Dalek commanded of the watchman.

"It's not a weapon." The Doctor called over. "Scan it, it's not a weapon, and you don't have the power to waste."

There was a pause as the Dalek scanned the man. "Scans indicate the in-trud-er un-armed."

"You think?" A clack echoed in the hall as the torch fell to the ground. The Poet couldn't see what was going on at all, but heard signs of fire and the Dalek squawking about impaired vision. The Doctor ran out from the Pandorica, followed by the Ponds. The Poet kicked Alistair's leg like one would urge on a horse, chuckling at his less-than-amused look.

"Amy?" The night watchman stepped out of the shadows to reveal a familiar face; Rory the Roman, still protecting the Pandorica.

"Rory." Amy breathed. She ran forward and the couple embraced tightly.

"I'm sorry." Rory said once they pulled away. "I'm sorry, I couldn't help it, it just happened."

"Oh, shut up." Amy grabbed his face and gave Rory a quick kiss.

"Yeah, _shut up, _'cause we've gotta go." The Doctor's words went completely unheeded, even though he was right in the couple's faces.

"I waited." Rory gasped. "Two thousand years, I waited for you."

"No, still shut up." Amy said and they kissed again, now staying connected for much longer.

"And break." The Doctor was staring at the pair as though they were more alien than him. "And _breathe._" He finally turned away from them, accepting that they would be done reuniting when they were done. "Well, somebody didn't get out much for two thousand years."

"Hey, can I put you down, now?" Alistair breathlessly asked the Poet, and she nodded. He gratefully set her down, taking a breath. "I swear, the more I carry you around, the heavier you get."

"Quiet, you." The Poet said, waving a finger threateningly. "Or I might just drop you back off home!" She looked up as she caught the Doctor staring at her. "Er . . . what?"

"The light." He said, and the Poet realised he was staring _around _her, at the Pandorica a few paces back. "The light from the Pandorica, it must have hit the Dalek." Just as he said it, the Dalek hummed awake, the orange light in the eye stem turning on again. The Doctor spun and began ushering them toward the door. "Out, out, out!"

"Oh, come _on._" Alistair gasped, but heaved the Poet up nonetheless and ran off with the others. They charged through the door and locked it behind them.

"So, two thousand years, how did you do?" The Doctor asked Rory. He seemed to notice he still had the fez in his hand and stuck it on his head.

"Kept out of trouble." Rory answered.

"Oh. How?" The Doctor dashed over to a wall and grabbed a mop to bar the door with, when both Rory and the Poet cried out.

The latter of the two hopped out of Alistair's arms to give him another break. "Wait, wait! The mop and fez, that's how you looked, right?" Rory nodded in confirmation. "That's exactly how you looked when you came back to talk to us in Rome!"

"Ah, well, no time to lose, then." The Doctor tapped the vortex manipulator and vanished with a faint zapping noise. There was barely time to inhale before he appeared again. He stuck the mop in the door. "Oops, sorry." He disappeared again, and reappeared.

"Wait, you had the mop when you talked to me." The Poet said, remembering.

"Did I? Give me a mo." He grabbed the mop out, assumedly went to talk to her past self, and came back to put the mop back where it had been. "Right. Let's go, then." He began running up the stairs but stopped suddenly. "Wait! Now I don't have my sonic, I just gave it to Rory two thousand years ago." Once again, he went back and forth. "Ah." He stepped forward and reached into Amy's top pocket to pull out his sonic. "Off we go. No, hang on."

He jumped down the stairs to face Amelia. "How did you know to come here?" The girl reached into her pocket and pulled out what looked like a pamphlet for the museum, and a sticky note. The Doctor looked at the briefly before tossing them away. "Ah, my handwriting. Okay." He dashed around the room to a stand with pamphlets and a desk with had the sticky notes on it, snatching up a pen as well. He slapped the vortex manipulator and disappeared.

"This is making me dizzy." Alistair muttered to the Poet, who nodded slightly in agreement.

A second later the Doctor reappeared, holding a large pop, which he gave to Amelia. "There you go, drink up."

"What is that? Amy asked as the Doctor began running back up the stairs. "How are you doing that?"

"Vortex manipulator." He looked down at the wristband. "Cheap and nasty time travel. Very bad for you. I'm trying to give it up."

Amy made an impatient face. "Where are we going?"

"The roof." The Doctor barely had time to get the words out before another him appeared at the top of the stairs. The other Doctor looked at them tiredly, his clothes smoking a little, his face dirty and cut, before toppling down the stairs.

"Doctor, it's you." Rory said as they edged near the unconscious Doctor. The awake one quickly soniced the body, frowning. "How can it be you?"

"Doctor, is that you?" Amy asked quietly.

"Yeah, it's me." The Doctor muttered. "Me from the future." The Doctor on the floor suddenly snapped open his eyes and jerked up, grabbing the present Doctor and whispering quickly and too quietly to hear into his ear. Once done, he lay back on the floor, limp.

"Are you . . ." Amy seemed unsure as to how to phrase the question. "I mean, is he . . . is he dead?"

"What?" The Doctor stood up, looking somewhat in a daze. "Dead? Yes, yes, of course he's dead. Right, I've got twelve minutes, that's good." He turned and began running up the stairs.

"How is having twelve minutes to live _good?_" Alistair asked incredulously, helping the Poet up a couple steps.

"Oh, you can to loads in twelve minutes. Suck a mint, buy a sledge, have a fast bath." He turned to the top of the stairs again. "Come on, the roof!"

"We can't just leave you here, dead!" Rory said.

"Oh, good." The Doctor turned back around. "Are you in charge, now? So, tell me, what are we going to do about Amelia?"

Everyone turned to look. The museum pop cup was lying on the ground, with no Amelia in sight. "Where'd she go?" Amy asked. Rory called down the hall for her, with no answer.

"There is no Amelia." The Doctor said. "From now on, there never was. History is still collapsing."

"How can I still be here if she's not?" Amy asked, raising a fairly good question.

"You're an anomaly, same as us." The Poet chimed in. "By all accounts, we shouldn't really exist. This is the eye of the storm."

"Right, exactly, but the eye is _closing_, and if we don't do something fast, reality will never have existed." The Doctor said loudly, bouncing up a few steps. "Today, just dying is a result. Now, come on!"

Alistair grumbled and picked the Poet up again, stepping up after the Doctor. Amy and Rory hung back a little, Amy saying something while Rory put his jacket over the dead Doctor's face. They made their way through the museum to the maintenance area, where they found a ladder to the roof. The Doctor was through first, followed by the humans and bringing up the lead was Alistair, doing an impressive job of actually carrying the Poet up the ladder. Not that the Time Lady was happy about it; she actually greatly resented having to be carted around by her companion like an invalid.

"What, it's morning already?" Amy asked as they emerged in fresh air. Everything was soaked in a sort of orangish light, which looked somewhat unnatural, but it was, in fact, daylight.

"History is shrinking. Is anyone listening to me?" The Doctor asked, looking around before hopping up onto a heating apparatus and bringing out his sonic, aiming it at an antenna. "Universe is collapsing. We don't have much time."

"What are you doing?" Alistair gasped, almost dropping the Poet down next to the Doctor.

"Finding the TARDIS." He muttered back.

"Didn't the TARDIS explode?"

"Well, then, I'm looking for an exploding TARDIS." The Doctor ripped a satellite dish off its stand and jumped down.

"Doctor, I don't understand!" Amy cried. "So, the TARDIS blew up and took the universe with it; why would it do that? How?"

The Doctor was standing on the edge of the building now, looking up at the sky. "Good question for another day. The question for now is, total event collapse. It means that every star in the universe never happened, not one single one of them ever shone. So, if all the stars that ever were are gone, than _what," _He pointed up at the "sun". "Is that? Like I said, I'm looking for an exploding TARDIS."

Rory looked around. "But that's the sun." He said, like it was obvious.

"Is it? Well, here's the sound the sun is making right now." The Doctor held the dish toward the ball of fire and put his sonic against the end. A few seconds passed, and then, through some static and faintly, came the noise of the brake being left on a Type Forty TARDIS.

"That's my TARDIS burning up there." The Doctor said as they listened. "That's what's been keeping the Earth warm."

"Doctor, there's something else." Rory said, listening hard. "A voice."

They all paused for a moment. "I can't hear anything." Amy whispered.

"Trust the plastic."

The Doctor changed the wave of the sonic, and slowly the voice became clearer. " . . . ve. I'm s . . . my love. I'm sorry, my love." The four words kept on repeating themselves over and over again.

"Doctor, that's River." Amy stated the obvious. "How can she be up there?"

"It must be some kind of recording." Rory pondered.

"No, it's not a recording." The Doctor said, and lowered the dish. "Of course, the emergency protocols. The TARDIS has sealed off the control room and put her in a time loop to save her. River is _right_ at the heart of the explosion." He began typing something into the vortex manipulator. "Don't wait up."

He vanished, and reappeared a minute later with River, behind them. "Amy!" River exclaimed, surprised to see them. "And the plastic Centurion." Her observation of Rory was said with considerably more worry.

"Don't worry, he's on our side." The Doctor assured her.

"Really?" River stepped over to Rory. "I dated a Nestene duplicate once. Swappable head, did keep things fresh. Hello, Poet." River grinned at her, and noticed her leg. "What happened?"

"Cyberman sentry back at the Pandorica, long story that we don't really have time for." The Poet answered, waving a hand flippantly.

"Right, I have questions." River clapped her hands together. "But number one is, what in the name of _sanity _have you got on your head?" She turned, staring at the Doctor like he was mad.

"It's a fez. I wear a fez now, fezzes are cool." The Doctor answered without missing a beat. River looked over to Amy, to gave the slightest of nods before grabbing the fez off the Doctor's head and throwing it high in the air. River brought out a small laser pistol and blasted the red hat to dust. All but the Doctor looked on in amusement as the pieces of hat fluttered down.

Their expressions quickly turned to fear as the stone Dalek from earlier rose up from the edge of the building. "Ex-termin-ate!" It cried.

"Run, run, move, move, go! Come on!" The Doctor ushered everyone back to the hatch that led inside the museum, holding the satellite dish up like a makeshift shield to block to Dalek.

"Alistair!" The Poet called, stumbling up and hopping clumsily. She looked around in panic. "Alistair?"

"Poet, come on!" The Doctor grabbed her around the middle, still holding the dish in one hand, and half-carried the Poet to the ladder. She slid down the bars to let the Doctor in, and he pulled and locked it closed behind them.

"Doctor, come on . . ." River muttered, aiming the pistol at the trapdoor.

"Shh." The Doctor said. "It's moving away. Finding another way in. It needs to restore its power before it can attack again. Which means we've got exactly," He checked his watch once he stepped off the ladder. "Four and a half minutes before it reaches lethal capacity."

"How do you know?" Rory asked.

"Because that's when it's due to kill me." The Doctor answered, supporting the Poet as he began to walk back down to the normal museum area.

"Kill you, what do you mean, kill you?" River asked as they ran after.

"Oh, shut up, never mind." The Doctor called back. "How can that Dalek even exist? It was erased from time, and then it came back. How?"

"You said the light from the Pandorica—" Rory started.

"It's not a light, it's a restoration field. But never mind, call it a light." They were walking past exhibits of fossils and dinosaur bones, the halls all empty except for them. "That light brought Amy back, restored her, but how could it bring back a Dalek when the Daleks never existed?" The Doctor paused, like he was waiting for them to answer.

"Okay, tell us." Amy said after a minute.

"When the TARDIS blew up, it caused a total event collapse. A time explosion. And that explosion blasted every atom in every moment of the universe. Except—" He turned back to Amy.

"Inside the Pandorica." She answered hesitantly.

"The perfect prison. And inside it, perfectly preserved, a few billion of atoms in the universe as it was. In theory, you could extrapolate the whole universe from a single one of them, like cloning a body from a single cell and we've got the bumper family pack."

"No, no, too fast, I'm not getting it." Rory said.

"The box contains a memory of the universe, and the light transmits the memory, and that's how we're going to do it."

"Do what?" Amy asked.

"Relight the fire. _Reboot _the universe." He smiled in excitement, tugging the Poet closer so he could walk faster. "Come on!"

"Doctor, you're being _completely_ ridiculous!" River exclaimed, following closely along. "The light partially restored _one _Dalek. If it can't even reboot a single life form properly, how's it going to reboot the whole of reality?"

"What if give it a moment of infinite power?" The Doctor asked sharply. "What if we can transmit the light from the Pandorica to every particle of space and time simultaneously?"

"Well, that would be lovely, dear, but we can't because it's completely impossible." River replied, her voice almost a sneer of frustration.

"Ah, no, you see, it's not." He tapped her nose. "It's almost completely impossible. One spark is all we need."

"For what?"

"Big Bang Two. Now listen . . ." He turned around again, and a short bullet of blue energy struck him in the chest. The Poet stumbled away, too shocked to even feel her foot anymore, but being caught and pulled away by Rory.

"Ex-termin-ate! Ex-termin-ate!" The Dalek cried, rattled down the hall.

"Come on, Poet." Rory raised his voice. "Come on! River, get back now!" River was kneeling next to the Doctor's body, not listening. Rory aimed his hand-gun at the Dalek and fired a couple times, not killing it, but certainly slowing it down.

The Doctor reached down to the vortex manipulator on his wrist, tapping it, and promptly vanished. River stood, looking around. "Where'd he go? Dammit, he could be anywhere!"

"He went downstairs." Amy said quietly. "Twelve minutes ago."

"Show me!" River demanded.

"River . . ." The Poet drew her attention, gritting her teeth in pain but still speaking. "He died." River just had time to look horrified before the Dalek began to whirr to life again.

"Systems restoring! You will be exterminated!" The Dalek cried.

"We've got to move, that thing's coming back to life." Rory was still aiming his hand at the Dalek around a corner.

"You go to the Doctor. I'll be right with you." River face had glossed over to something thoughtful as she stared the pepper-pot Dalek down.

The other three looked over at her, and knew immediately that they had no time to lose, and she wasn't changing her mind. The Poet heaved herself to her feet as the humans began running down the corridor, and was intercepted by Rory. They shuffled down the hall that led to the staircase the Doctor had died on. Distantly, the Poet thought she could hear the Dalek screaming something that sounded suspiciously like 'mercy'. She smirked. A Dalek, begging for mercy? Now she's seen it all.

When they arrived at the stairs, the Doctor was gone, Rory's jacket right where he had been. "How could he have moved?" Rory asked, knowing he wouldn't get a real answer. "He was dead. Doctor? Doctor!"

"But . . . he _was _dead!" Amy said.

"Who told you that?" River asked, coming down the stairs.

"He did."

"Rule one—the Doctor lies."

"River, where's the Dalek?" The Poet asked warily.

"It died." River replied, her voice colder than ice. She began walking back through the door to the corridor that led to the Pandorica. Once in the room, they could look all the way down the hall to the open Pandorica, and the Time Lord slumped over inside of it.

"_Doctor!" _Amy sprinted to the end of the hall, as did River, but the Poet regrettably slowed Rory down somewhat.

"Why did he tell us he was dead?" Rory asked once they arrived.

"We were a diversion." Amy realised aloud. "As long as the Dalek was chasing us, he could work down here."

River stepped almost inside the Pandorica, placing her hands on the Doctor's face. "Doctor, can you hear me? What were you doing?"

The Poet's gaze drifted up to the half-circle window above them, through which they could see the roiling explosion of the TARDIS. It was audible now, making the sound of a growling fire and illuminating the room like nothing else.

"What's happening?" Rory asked quietly.

"Reality is collapsing, much faster now, I'm afraid." The Poet grunted, heaving herself away to sit on an uncomfortably cushioned chair. "Just look in the corridor."

Amy and Rory turned to look, and found that all the exhibits, the stuffed animals and fake shrubbery were gone. "Where'd everything go?" Amy asked.

"History's being erased." River answered. "Time's running out." She turned back to the Doctor. "Doctor, what were you doing? Tell us!"

They waited with bated breath as the Doctor slowly, partially opened his eyes to glance out at them and breathe out a few words. "Big . . . Bang . . . Two."

"The Big Bang?" Rory asked. "That's the beginning of the universe, right?"

"What, and Big Bang Two is the bang that brings us back? Is that right?" Amy asked the Doctor, stepping forward.

"Oh." A look of realisation splashed onto River's face. She looked to the Poet, who was staring at the Doctor, her mouth a little 'o' of shock.

"What?" Amy looked between them.

"You see, kids," The Poet spoke up. "The TARDIS is still exploding up there. It's exploding at every moment of history, of reality as we know it. You put the Pandorica at the center of that explosion, at the very heart of the blaze, then—"

"Then what?" Amy asked impatiently. The Poet nodded to River.

"Then let there be light." River answered. "The light from the Pandorica would explode everywhere at once. Just like he said."

"And—and that would work?" Amy asked. "That would bring everything back?"

"A restoration field powered by an exploding TARDIS happening at every moment in history." River murmured. "Oh, that's brilliant. That might even work." She grabbed out his sonic and began scanning the wristband on his arm, which was now connected to a load of cables. "He's wired the vortex manipulator to the rest of the box."

"Why?"

"So he can take it with him." River looked back up at the Doctor, who was rolling his head, waking. "He's going to fly the Pandorica into the heart of the explosion."

Amy and Rory, their expressions unreadable, drifted off together to sit on a bench opposite the Poet. River stayed inside the Pandorica, waking the Doctor and conversing quietly with him. The Poet sat still off to the side, staring up at the explosion through the window. She wasn't sure what to think, now the universe was ending. In theory, it would all restart again, but in truth, she didn't especially care. She was eight hundred and ninety-nine years old, almost hitting the big nine double-oh, and she had lived far too long. If all of reality ended like it was right now, the Poet might even enjoy it.

River walked over to the humans on the bench. She looked sideways at the Poet. "Poet, he wants to talk to you. And then you, Amy."

"What happens now?" Amy asked, standing. The apocalypse was not doing well on her. "Big Bang Two? What happens to us?"

"We all wake up where we ought to be." River answered. "None of this ever happens and we don't remember it."

"River . . ." Amy asked, almost crying. "Tell me he comes back, too."

"The Doctor will be at the heart of the explosion." River wasn't looking much better.

"So?"

"So, all the cracks in time will close, but he'll be on the wrong side, trapped in the never-space, the void between the worlds. All memory of him will be purged from the universe." Amy bent her head, squeezing her eyes shut like River's words hurt her. "Now, please. He wants to talk to you before he goes."

"Not to you?"

"He doesn't really know me yet." River said shakily, trying to smile but failing. "Now he never will."

The Poet knew it was her turn, first. Her final good-bye. But she didn't have anyone helping her along, for those few steps. For those few steps she walked like she was good as new. She stopped and looked up. She met the Doctor's gaze. How many times was that, now? She had lost count. It seemed like half of what they did together was just that; looking and sometimes smiling softly, just glancing or meeting gazes or exchanging quick looks. Each of those felt like a conversation, a million words missed out on over a few hundred years of total, crippling loneliness. And now he was looking at her with a new expression, one of accepting sadness but still that bit of happiness. The Poet understood, completely. No matter the circumstance, no matter how grave, there was always that shadow of glee that the other simply _existed_.

"I'm sorry." The Doctor said. His voice perfectly matched his expression.

It was those two, very fundamental words that instantly broke the Poet. She, who had remained as cool-headed as possible in any and every situation, including the ending of all reality, cracked like an egg with three syllables. A sob broke from her, as well as hot, salty tears. It was a sorry for everything. Maybe this was most recent, but those words had more weight than the heart of a white star, to the Poet. It was sorry for everything.

"I know . . . I know you are." She gasped, and clumsily wiped her face, doing nothing as more tears continued to fall. "I wish this didn't have to happen."

"No, no," He replied gently. "It's worth it, you know."

The Poet shook her head vigourously, shoulders jumping. "No, it's not."

"Yes, it is." The Doctor insisted. "Poet, you shouldn't exist; by all accounts you should be in the War. But you're _not_. You defied everything, everything I thought was true about what I'd done. And I met _you, _and I knew you, even if it wasn't for long. And I am so, so happy I met you."

More tears were sliding down the Poet's chin to drip on the floor. "I'm sorry I didn't find you earlier. Because I was selfish and scared, and I'm selfish and scared, now, because I don't want to be alone again." She smiled shakily at him. "But I'm really glad I met you, too, Doctor." The Poet grabbed one of the Doctor's shackled hands in both of her own. In the excess of a second she leaned into the box and brushed one last kiss on his cheek. "Thank you." She whispered, and backed away to sit back down on her chair.

Amy slowly, tearfully stepped up to the Pandorica. The Poet bent her head as they began to speak, willing herself not to hear. Words of farewell, she always thought, were words to be heard only by those meant for it, and she didn't need to hear Amy Pond's good-bye to her Doctor. She didn't want to. It felt like stealing.

"Doctor, it's speeding up!" River called urgently, as the ground shook beneath their feet and the red, boiling light of the explosion grew nearer and hotter and brighter. Amy stepped back from the Pandorica as it slid shut. The Doctor said something the Poet didn't want to hear, and the look of heartbreaking sorrow and surprise that passed onto Amy's face was so intense the Poet could feel it like heat off a fire.

Smoke began to accumulate under the Pandorica, and the engravings began to glow white. Amy was too close to it, and River knew. "Back! Get back!" She yelled, and she and Rory both dove to tackle her away. The Pandorica shot from the museum with the crack of something breaking the sound barrier, and was gone in a flash of light and smoke.

River picked up her scanner, getting a message. They, excluding the Poet, were huddled on the floor, panting. "It's from the Doctor!"

"What does it say?" Amy's voice was eerily calm.

River made a little gasp of sadness. "'Geronimo'."

And the last minutes in that reality they spent staring at the hole in the ceiling, and simply wondering, and fearing, the next step in plan Big Bang Two. The last thought the Poet personally had, was actually a feeling. It was not one of panic or fear, but rather one of peace.

Slowly, like it was something she was not doing, the Poet reached into her jacket. _If it all ended, and the Doctor's plan fails, I could care less, _she thought. Her fingers touched cold metal. _It feels right, if it were to stop here._ She slowly slid on the fake wedding band she had used at Craig's house, the diamond glinting red in the light of burning TARDIS. _It's time_. A cold tear dropped down her face. _Time to begin again._

_Let there be light._


	17. Jump Start

_Hope you enjoy the fluff(?)! I tried ;~;_

_W'P_

"_It started out as a feeling, which then grew into a hope/Which then turned into a quiet thought/Which then turned into a quiet word/And then that word grew louder and louder/until it was a battle cry/I'll come back when you call me/No need to say good-bye." Regina Spektor, "The Call", 2010_

"_Kisses are like tears, the only real ones are the ones you can't hold back." -Author Unknown_

_-o-_

The Poet groaned and turned over. For some reason, she was in her bed. She sat up, blinking rapidly to wake up, but it didn't really feel like she'd been sleeping. More like she'd been just lying there. And there was something, something she needed to remember, something really quite important . . .

Then it hit her. Amy and Rory were getting married, and if she wasn't there, she was going to be kicked by an angry Scottish bride. The Poet jumped off the bed, as she had just been lying on the covers, and ran down to Alistair's room.

"Donova-a-an!" She lifted a leg and kicked the door open with a smash. "We've got a wedding to be at!"

"What?" Alistair sat straight up in bed, staring at her like she was mad. "We're in a time machine! Does it matter?"

"Shut it!" The Poet was already sprinting down to her closet-room, dashing up a spiral staircase. "It matters because I say it does, now get ready! It's black-tie, ginger, so dress with a black tie somewhere on your person!" A strip of cloth, a black tie, fluttered down the stairs and Alistair grabbed it as he walked up.

"Okay, could you toss me something to wear?" He asked loudly to be heard through the door.

"You have your own changing room and closet, Donovan!" The Poet called back, looking at herself in the wall-size mirror. She threw open the door. "Is this modern enough?"

Alistair snorted, but covered up the laugh with a fake cough. The Poet was wearing a Victorian-style dress with so much lace and so many ruffles, even the Poet had to admit—not out loud—it was like treading water. She sighed impatiently at him. "Fine, smartarse, what do you have in mind?"

"Okay, let me see." Alistair, still chuckling under his breath at her absurd appearance, pushed past her into the room. "Wow, this is extensive."

"I try."

Alistair looked over the many outfits hanging on wires, folded into piles both messy and neat, or just thrown into heaps. He reached onto a shelf and pulled out a handful of ties, coloured like a rainbow. "Have you even worn all of these?"

"Well, yeah. I've worn everything in here at least once." The Poet answered. "That's why I own them."

Alistair grabbed something and held it up. "Oh, Poet? A little black dress? Never thought you the type." He smirked at the Poet, who was blushing slightly, and took out another garment. "You have a dress that's printed _like a suit_?"

"Don't blame me!" The Poet snatched the suit-dress from his hand. "I rather like this one. Now get out, I've just thought of something. Go put on your black tie." She flung through mountains of clothing as she looked for her outfit, listening to Alistair's retreating footsteps. "Is Amy wearing white? That's what humans do at weddings, right? Right! There it is! Now, grab these, and _those _are going to hurt, and put on that, and voila!"

She stepped out of the dressing room, holding her shoes in her hand. "You done yet, Donovan?" She called, sliding down the steps.

"Agh!" He cried, now dressed in a nice suit, struggling with his bowtie. "How do you tie this thing?"

"Oh, you silly human." The Poet untangled his fingers from the black cloth and quickly tied it. "A bowtie? Come now, have some class. There, you look dashing. Is _this _modern enough?" She stepped back. The Poet had changed out her Victorian wear with a longer black dress, a little ruffled and only a bit past her knees. The bowler and tie had stayed, and clashed weirdly with the elbow-length gloves she was wearing.

Alistair looked at her skeptically before taking the gloves off. "Lose those. And maybe the hat can—"

"You touch my hat, and I'm leaving you in ancient Babylon for a year. No exceptions."

Alistair held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay." He wiggled his wrists, indicating his sleeves dangling open. "Help?"

The Poet chuckled and buttoned them, then brushed some dust off his lapel. "Well, now you look really quite nice. Let's go, shall we?" She leaned over to pull the launch lever of the TARDIS and sat down to start strapping on her shoes. She looked up and saw the black bowtie Alistair wore. Something tickled in the back of her mind, but she brushed it off as the TARDIS came to a halt.

"Hm, well, look at this." The Poet said, walking slightly crookedly at first to the door, and then straightening out. She snickered. "A ginger and the last Time Lady walk into a wedding." She thought for a moment. "You know, that was going to be a joke, but I can't think of the punch line now. Oh, wait!" She jumped back over to the console and grabbed a navy gift box, complete with lighter bow, off the glass. "Okay, let's go."

"I sure hope there's champagne . . ." Alistair muttered and pushed open the door. The Poet stepped through first, looking around. The TARDIS had turned into a large shrub for the occasion, adding little blue flowers. She grinned and blew a kiss to the machine before turning and walking toward the reception.

It seemed as though they had _just _missed the ceremony, as the two families were sitting at the head table, chatting to each other. People sat at round tables, the bubble of talking and the occasional spike of laughter occupying the pleasant atmosphere. Large red balloons waved around the hall. A crystal chandelier hung, glinting, in the center of the ceiling. The Poet waved over to Amy, sitting near the center of the table, next to Rory.

"Hi, you two!" She greeted, and the married couple both made noises of surprise at seeing her. "Married already? Hope I'm not late." She held up the box. "Brought a present. Don't worry; it'll all be fine for another couple months, if you need it. I made sure. It's a refrigerator, too." She put a finger to her lips and winked. "Bigger on the inside."

Amy made a noise close to a laugh. "Okay, Poet. Thanks. You can just put it over there." She pointed to a pile of gifts off to the side.

"Did you get here all right?" Rory asked. "No TARDIS trouble?"

"No, all clear. It's the shrub with the flowers out back, in case anyone tries to enter the greenery." The Poet said, giving them a nod.

"Right, ah, well, we saved a table for you." Amy pointed over to an empty table. "The real reception should start soon. I hope."

"Thanks. Oh, and congrats!" She gave them double-thumbs-up and pulled Alistair over to their table. Just as they did, the best man stood up to speak.

"Ladies and gentlemen, ladies and gentlemen, the father of the bride—Augustus Pond!"

A rotund man, smiling form ear to ear, stood up humbly. The guests all applauded and asked for a speech. "Sorry everyone, I'll be another two minutes. Just reviewing certain aspects." He sat back down, glancing over at Rory, who laughed nervously. Amy leaned over to talk to her mum, laughing and holding a hand over her face. The Poet turned to talk to Alistair, and through the window of the hall saw a woman walking. Her hair was a mass of blonde ringlets, and she smirked knowingly at the Poet before leaving her line of sight.

The Time Lady looked over to Amy, who was now standing up and staring where the woman had been. She sat back down, but continued looking around the room with wide eyes. The Poet was frowning now, holding her thumbs to her temples. She recalled, "waking" up earlier, and how there was something she needed to remember. At first, she had thought it was Amy's wedding, but she was wrong. There was something bigger, something much more infinitely important that she needed to know. The Poet looked down at her hand. Augustus was now giving his actual speech, but the Poet wasn't listening.

Alistair followed her gaze down to the Poet's hand. He nudged her jokingly with his elbow. "Hey, ah, since when were you married?"

The Poet looked sideways at him, only half paying attention. Her eyes fell to the black bowtie she had helped him put on. Before she could say anything resembling a reply, there was a scraping of chairs as Amy stood suddenly.

"Shut up, dad." She said.

"Amelia?" He asked, clearly embarrassed.

"Sorry, dad, but seriously, shut up. There's someone missing, someone important. Someone so, _so, _important." Amy sounded close to tears. She took a breath after Rory said something quietly to her. "Sorry, sorry everyone. When I was a kid, I had an imaginary friend." People at the tables made little sighing noises of exasperation, her parents and Rory looking especially annoyed. "The Raggedy Doctor. My Raggedy Doctor. He wasn't imaginary. He was real. I remember you. I remember!" The final words were a borderline scream. There was a long, embarrassing pause. "I brought the others back, I can bring you home, too! Raggedy Man, I remember you, and you are _late for my wedding!" _The Poet looked down at her glass, inside of which the champagne was rippling. The china began to rattle against the cutlery. The chandelier swung back and forth. The guests were suddenly looking much less amused.

"I found you." Amy continued with a burst of confidence. "I found you in words, like you knew I would, and that's why you told me that story—the brand-new, ancient blue box. Oh, clever, very clever."

"Amy, what is it?" Rory asked, panicked.

"Something old." Amy said dramatically. The red and white balloons all around started waving as though in a wind. The glasses were shaking now, entire tables shuddering across the floor. People started getting up, crying out in fear. "Something new. Something borrowed." There was a wonderfully familiar whirring, whooshing sound. Amy's voice shook on the last two words she spoke, sounding about on the verge of tears. "Something blue."

In the middle of the room, a large, very _blue_ phone box faded in and out before solidifying. The guests gasped in surprise, exchanging looks of shock. With a determined look, Amy hitched up the trailing end of her dress and marched right over her table, china and glasses clinking, down to the phone box. The Poet stood, staring at the phone box in shock.

Amy knocked rapidly on the door, behind which there was muffled talking. "All right, Doctor?" Amy called loudly. "Did I surprise you this time?"

"Ah, yeah." The Doctor opened the TARDIS door and poked his head out. "Completely astonished." He smiled a little. "Never expected that. Good that I happened to be wearing this old thing." He was referencing the slightly out-of-fashion tuxedo, complete with white bowtie and tall top hat. He marched out of his phone box and out to the room, spinning around dramatically. "Hello, everyone. I'm Amy's imaginary friend." He shook Mr Pond's hand. "But I came anyway."

"You absolutely, definitely may kiss the bride." Amy purred, pushing herself off the TARDIS and marching toward the Doctor, who, without missing a beat, put a finger on her lips.

"Amelia, from now on I will leave the, uh, kissing duties to the brand-new Mr Pond!" He said, happily shaking Rory's hand.

"No, I'm not Mr Pond." Rory said suddenly. "That's not how it works."

"Yeah it is."

". . . Yeah, it is." There was some laughter from the gathered guests, a bit nervous, though now a slightly more at ease after getting over their initial shock.

"Doctor!"

"Yes?" The Doctor turned around and was greeted by a very sudden, very sharp, very annoyed slap to the face. The people around ooh-ed at the abrupt strike. Amy clapped a hand over her mouth so she wouldn't laugh, and Rory let out a little snort. The Time Lord winced and worked his jaw around, rubbing his cheek, where there was a distinct hand mark appearing. "Ouch." He looked up at the Poet and regarded her for a moment. "I deserved that, didn't I?"

"Oh, you most certainly did." The Poet nodded vigourously. They stared at each other a moment before the Doctor smiled, lifted her hand and gave it a little kiss. The Poet sighed, and smiled forgivingly as the Doctor released her hand.

The Doctor cleared his throat and spun around, addressing everyone. "Right, everyone. I'll move my box. You're gonna need the space." He clapped his hands together and jumped over to his TARDIS. Popping inside, he said, "I only came for the dancing."

The Poet stomped back to her table, where Alistair still seemed to be getting over some surprise. "So, are you going to beat the living daylights out of him now? Because I'll need to get that on tape, so, some warning might be good."

"Oh, no, I'm not going to beat the daylights out of him. Well, not yet." The Poet sat down and threw back the champagne in the flute on the table, coughing and making a face. "I think he still has another slap coming. But I'll save that for later."

-o-

Later in the evening, during the reception, it was made extremely clear to everyone that the Doctor had, in fact, come to dance. He was like a madman, spinning around the room and stealing the show. Amy broke down in laughter, as his moves apparently weren't in style. The Poet watched Alistair awkwardly trying to dance, and giving up after a while in favour of getting himself more champagne. The Time Lady snatched the glass from his hand and promptly shoved him into the center of the festivities, almost making him run into a group of children being entertained by the Doctor. She laughed as she watched her human friend flounder for a moment before surrendering, apparently realising she wasn't going to give up.

The Poet felt her arm almost pulled from the socket as the Doctor reached over and yanked her onto the floor, and she laughed as they began to dance in some sort of weird waltzing, spinning, excitable dance that didn't yet have a name on Earth. Both of them laughing uproariously, they swung around the room, spinning and being dipped down and almost running back and forth. More like galloping, but it was close enough. The Poet was practically in tears at that point, her hair flying all over the place and her cheeks flushed from the exercise.

After a while, they were being stared by at least at the people paying attention, as they were taking up some room on the dance floor. The Doctor spun her around again, and the Poet's dress flung out in a starburst of black fabric, and she was laughing hysterically and she spun back and kept dancing around the floor, panting now with exertion.

The DJ at last decided that that was quite enough alien dancing for one day, and slowed the songs down in an attempt to calm the Time Lord and Lady down as well. Amy and Rory took the first slow dance, as the married couple. After a couple minutes, Amy's parents joined them. The Poet caught sight, as other couples joined, of Alistair being semi-dragged onto the floor by a dark-haired young man, who was politely waving off Alistair's feeble attempts to tell him that he was married. She grinned and gave him a thumbs-up, to which he replied with a much ruder sign that made some older guests that saw it huff indignantly.

The Poet sat off to the side for a while, trying to find something similar to water to drink. Eventually, Alistair managed to break away and throw himself into a chair, giving the Poet a look both tired and mildly annoyed. "I swear, dancing will be the death of me. Dunno what compelled you to push me into the thick of it, but it wasn't funny."

"Oh, shut up." The Poet said. "Of course it was, and look, you actually had fun! That's what I'm here for."

Alistair sighed, but smiled nonetheless. "Fine, it was fun." He stood and pulled her to her feet. "I don't think I've seen you dance yet—properly, I mean—so as my sworn duty as a companion, I've under oath to provide you with a dance should none other be offered."

"You're not under oath." The Poet said, as they walked onto the floor. "But thanks."

"It's the least I can do. I mean, seeing dozens of planets across the universe?" Alistair snorted. "That's something people normally pay for."

"Maybe I should start charging." The Poet joked.

"Hey, don't say things like that." Alistair said, only partially kidding. "You're only a few good deeds away from me throwing money at your feet." He turned and they stopped dancing as the Doctor tapped his shoulder.

"Ah, mind if I cut in?" He asked. Alistair was quicker to step away then if there had been a snake on the floor.

"Oh, no, of course!" He grinned at the Poet—clearly he thought this some type of revenge for her earlier pushiness, or perhaps his misplaced glee was for some other, hidden reason. "By all means, I was just going, um, over here." He pointed at a wall behind him and scurried off to the drinks table.

"I still owe you a slap." The Poet said under her breath as she and the Doctor danced, swaying back and forth. She had her hands on the Doctor's shoulders, and his resting on her waist, staying at a gentlemanly distance, though they were still dancing closer than the Poet and Alistair had been.

"Well, I know that," The Doctor replied, giving her a sad smile. "I'm sorry."

"You said that before." The Poet murmured. "And I know you are, but . . ." She sighed. "It wasn't easy going through that again." She shook herself from it somewhat; she didn't feel like talking about it right then. "What's done is done, and the universe if better for it. On the bright side, I can walk again." She smiled and shook her leg as if to prove it.

"Always an improvement. Are you married?" The Doctor nodded to the ring on her finger, having apparently noticed it out of the corner of his eye.

"Oh . . ." The Poet frowned at it. "No, I'm not. It's the one I wore when we were at Craig's. I never really knew why I always kept it around until now. A memory, I suppose. Something to keep reminding me that there was someone I was missing." She pondered softly. "You were always there, at the back of my mind."

"I knew you would remember." The Doctor spun her gently around. "You and Amy first; I always suspected it would be one of you."

"River beat us to the punch somewhat." The Poet laughed. "Although Alistair's ridiculous bowtie helped."

"Hey, bowties are cool." The Doctor grinned crookedly.

The Poet rolled her eyes, but smiled. "Fine, bowties are cool. Happy now?"

The song hummed down to end, and the Poet stepped away. "Well, ah, thank you for the dance." She was glad the light was low to hide her flushed cheeks. "I'll probably be off now, you know, things to do." She gestured to the door and turned to walk out, when she suddenly stopped. "No, wait." The Poet turned around once again. "I'm nine hundred years old. I'm not going to be a child about this."

Grabbing both ends of the white scarf hanging around his neck, the Poet tugged the Doctor out to the garden. Night had fallen already, and the white lights draped across the shrubs and wrapped around the trimmed plants were all lit up. She continued to pull him around to just the other side of the door, the Doctor looking a bit confused all the time.

"Ah, Poet, what are you—" He was cut off as the Poet lunged forward, abruptly yanking him down to kiss him. The Doctor froze for a moment, clearly shocked, his arms flailing a bit before hesitantly resting on her shoulders. The Poet had both her hands behind the Doctor's neck, sliding her fingers into his hair. The Doctor, after a second, moved his hands to her waist like when they had been dancing. The Poet's bowler hat shifted as they tilted their heads slightly.

The Time Lady was first to pull away, and let out a little breath, straightening her hat. "Sorry." She finally said. "That was out of line."

"Uh, no, that was, um," The Doctor cleared his throat. "It was nice."

"Was it?" The Poet nodded. "I've been a bit out of practise. Good to know." There was a somewhat awkward pause. The Poet was about to say something to fill the silence, when Alistair stumbled from the reception hall. He was grinning slyly at them, though a bit crookedly.

"You two having a good snog, then?" He slurred. The Poet could instantly tell he had been drinking, and sighed, walking over to him as the ginger continued to ramble. "'Bout time, in my 'pinion. Too much, um," He made an attempt to snap his fingers. "Ah, right! Sexual tension."

"Oh, Alistair, what have I told you about getting drunk at public events?" The Poet chided, ushering him to the shrub that was her TARDIS and carefully guiding him inside. "You'll be taking that tonic and then it's straight to bed with you, ging." She looked over her shoulder to pass the Doctor an apologetic wince before stepping in after her companion.

"Sit down right _here._" The Poet gently ushered Alistair by the shoulders to a chair around the console and sat him down. She then stepped over to a drawer in the console and without even looking grabbed the correct one. It cured the effects of drinking too much, but also made the subject inevitably and incredibly drowsy, very fast. "Here, Donovan, drink up."

Alistair grabbed the glass vial without glancing and drank the contents in a single gulp. His eyes glazed over for a few seconds, and he seemed to snap back into it. He looked around to take in the TARDIS, and sighed. "I got sloshed again, didn't I?"

"Afraid so." The Poet said, crossing her arms. "But I'm still disappointed in you. Up to your room _now,_ young man."

"What, you're not my mum." Alistair snorted, although it was apparent that already the tonic was kicking in. His lids drooped tiredly, and he yawned.

"Bed. _Now._" She pointed up the stairs, and Alistair trudged off, defeated and grumbling. The Poet let out a long sigh once he was upstairs and pulled off her shoes, which had left painful red lines where the material had bit into her feet. She threw them to the side, glaring at the foul things a few extra seconds for good riddance before stepping over to her console. She typed in some commands and cranked a knob before pulling the big lever.

The time machine leapt into action, but it didn't have far to go, and landed after only a few seconds of travel. The Poet stepped out and looked around the Doctor's TARDIS. It didn't look like anyone was there yet, so she stepped inside and walked over to lean against the console, looking at the glass and the multicoloured patterns below. It was as she leaned forward slightly to look at the scanner's screen that the door opened and the Doctor hopped inside, setting his top hat on a rack and spinning around, throwing off his scarf.

"Ah!" He exclaimed upon seeing her, after veritably dancing up to the console. "You're all over the place today."

"It's a wedding." The Poet confessed. "I love weddings, weddings are my favourite to go to. People are never sad at weddings."

"How's Alistair doing?" The Doctor stepped up to stand next to her.

"Oh, sorry about him." The Poet smirked. "He likes weddings, too. But he's all good now, though probably fell asleep on my stairs." They both laughed lightly, but quieted down. "Listen, I'm sorry about earlier, it was really unprofessional."

"Well, I never said we had a professional relationship." The Doctor smiled good-naturedly at her.

"_I _never said we had a _relationship_." The Poet couldn't stop a grin wriggling onto her face at his flummoxed look. Before he could answer, a flushed Amy burst into the TARDIS.

"Oi!" She grabbed up her trailing dress, addressing the Doctor. "Where are you off to? We haven't even had a snog in the shrubbery yet."

"Amy!" Rory gave her an offended look, closing the door behind him.

"Shut up, it's my wedding."

"_Our, _wedding!" Rory made motions with his hands to put emphasis on the two words.

"Either way, I think I _may _have beaten you to it on that one, Amy." The Poet said.

"Ooh, really? It's about time." The redhead smiled at the Doctor, who cleared his throat and gave the Poet a pointed look.

"Sorry, you two, shouldn't have slipped away. Bit busy, you know?" The Doctor pulled a lever behind him, fumbling a bit, as he didn't look.

"You just saved the whole and time and space." Rory said reasonably as he walked inside a bit more. "Take the evening off. Maybe a bit of tomorrow."

"Space and time aren't safe yet." The Doctor said, whirling around to start circling the console, pulling switches and all the usual motions. "My TARDIS exploded for a reason. Something drew the TARDIS to this particular date and blew it up. Why?" The telephone on the console rang loudly and abruptly. "And why now? The Silence, whatever it is, is still out there, and I have to—excuse me for a moment." He picked up the telephone. "Hello? Oh, hello . . . I'm sorry, this is a very bad line." He lowered his voice. "No, no, no, that's not possible, she was sealed into the seventh obelisk. I was at the prayer meeting. Well, no, I get that it's important, an Egyptian goddess on the loose on the _Orient Express_. In space. Give us a mo." He put his hand over the receiver and turned to the others, particularly the humans present. "Sorry, something's come up. This will have to be goodbye."

"Yeah, I think it's goodbye. Do you think it's goodbye?" Amy asked Rory.

"Definitely goodbye." The groom answered. They turned and walked to the entrance of the TARDIS. The Doctor looked over to the Poet.

"Goodbye?" He asked.

The Time Lady nodded in agreement. "Yeah. Goodbye." She looked over at Amy as she leaned out the door of the TARDIS and called goodbye to the remaining guests. "Right." The Poet pushed her bowler into a respectable position. "I'm going to go get properly dressed." She hopped into her TARDIS, which now assumed its wardrobe form whenever inside the Doctor's, and gave the Doctor a little smile and wave. "Don't wait up. Sounds like a _blast_."


	18. Blue Envelopes

_Last chapter was fun and games, certainly, but now comes that scene that briefly killed every Whovian across the globe. Also, I forgot to add that I wrote the Time Lords' first (not slow) dancing bit to the song "Take A Walk" by the group Passion Pit. So in case you're up for a re-read, that would be cool. And I'm sorry, there are some scene changes in here that I'm afraid I was too lazy too try and explain the transitions to, like when they travel to and from the diner and Silencio Lake. _

_GOOD NEWS, EVERYONE! I put up a new drawing on my profile for the brave. Lots of story-related, mostly Poet-related stuff all crammed into one sheet of notebook paper. _

_W'P_

"_Now he has departed from this strange world a little ahead of me. That signifies nothing. For us believing physicists, the distinction between past, present, and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion." -Albert Einstein_

_-o-_

The TARDIS whirred gently through space, from the outside looking simply as though it were drifting. On the inside, the occupants were just slightly bored. The Poet walked laps around the console, occasionally tapping a button or adjusting a key-turn switch to a different number to keep the time machine steady. Alistair was reclining upstairs in the parlour, eating jammy dodgers. He was consuming so many, so fast, it could almost be considered gorging.

"Poet, where are we going?" He fell back in his chair with a huff, dropping some biscuits on the floor. "I'm _bored. _I don't want to be mean, but things were more interesting when we were travelling with the Doctor a month or two back._"_

The Poet looked up at him, a little cross now. He was getting crumbs everywhere. "We'll go wherever you want to. Stop whining, stop making mess, and tell me where you want to—oh." The Poet turned and walked over to the door, her eyes glued to the floor.

"Huh?" Alistair leaned over the banister, dropping a jammy over the edge. He lunged to catch it before it dropped into the brim of the Poet's hat, and sighed. "What is it?"

"This." She held up a blue envelope, stepping back up to the console and taking the jammy dodger from her bowler as Alistair started down the stairs.

"Well, what's 'this'?" He asked, taking the envelope from her. The Poet grabbed it back and stuffed the biscuit in her mouth.

"It's mail, Donovan. They have mail on Earth, right?" She swallowed and turned the blue rectangle over. There was a gold number two printed on the back. The Poet shrugged and tore it open to pull out a piece of paper. On it was printed a pattern of circles and lines, with a little dot here and there. The Poet frowned at it, eyes flying over it in a moment before setting it on the console. The crease in her brow deepened briefly as she finished reading, then lightened to put Alistair at ease, though inside her thoughts were still roiling madly.

"Er, what is it?" Alistair picked up the paper and gave it a skeptical look as the Poet began setting in a destination.

"Date, time and map coordinates." The Poet answered, bracing herself as she pulled down on the launch. "It's from the Doctor and written in Gallifreian. Why it's written like that, I'm not sure. Perhaps he doesn't want anyone else to see it. And, it's numbered which means there are more like this. I know exactly where we're going, Alistair dear, so I think it's time for a slight costume change."

"Costume change? But you always wear a—" He couldn't get a sentence out before the Poet went dashing away to her wardrobe. "Suit."

"Ha, oh, this is so much fun!" The Poet came sliding down the staircase's banister, now wearing a Union Jack bandanna around her neck in place of her tie and a black Stetson, though it was quickly apparent that her bowler was still on under it. "Away we go!"

The Poet opened the door and jumped out, squinting in the harsh sunlight. An expanse of desert stretched out in front of them. The TARDIS had landed next to an old, dusty paved road and changed into a large cactus with a single red flower blooming on top. The Poet stepped out further to let Alistair join her in the merciless sun, and looked to the road, next to which a red station wagon was parked. A thin man was lying on his back on the hood, beige Stetson over his eyes and his hands clasped together.

"This is the middle of nowhere!" Alistair hissed. "What are we doing here? Where are we?"

"I think that's the point. We're in America." The Poet said, closing the TARDIS door and walking over to the car. "Hello, there. Another new hat?"

The Doctor flicked the brim of the hat up to grin at them. "You're wearing one too, though. Good choice."

The Poet hopped up onto the hood of the car to sit next to the Doctor. "Looks like you've been busy." There was a pause, and the Time Lord and Lady embraced. "Oh, Doctor, it's good to see you again!"

"Ah, you too, Poet." The Doctor returned happily, pecking her cheek. He turned to Alistair, leaning over to shake his hand enthusiastically. "And Alistair, how've you been?"

"Uh, you know. Coping." Alistair grinned half-heartedly, nodding.

"Looks like we've some company." The Poet nodded over to the road as a school bus pulled up and stopped for a moment, dropping someone off on the other side before grumbling away again. A man and woman were standing there now, looking around in mild confusion.

The Doctor elbowed the Poet, grinning mischievously, and raised his voice. "Howdy!" He called over, in something of an American accent, causing the pair to turn.

The Poet waved at them, grinning. "Mighty nice of y'all to come on down here!" She drawled, tipping her hats.

"Doctor! Poet!" They ran across the street, and the Time Lords slid off the hood to greet them.

"It's the Ponds!" The Doctor cried, embracing Amy happily. The Poet grinned and shook Rory's hand. The humans were both wearing large travelling backpacks, like the ones used for camping trips. "Pond one and Pond two! Come here, Ponds!"

"So, someone's been a busy boy, then?" Amy laughed, straightening his bowtie.

"Did you see me?" He asked happily.

"Of course!" Amy exclaimed. "Stalker!"

"Flirt!"

"Doctor." The Poet chastised, not very serious.

"What?" Alistair was clearly lost.

"Husband." Rory cut in, in a successful attempt to draw the Doctor's attention away from Amy.

"Oh, and Rory the Roman, come here!" The Doctor hugged Rory and pinched his cheeks. Amy and the Poet embraced quickly, then turned as Rory spoke.

"Nice hats." He said to the Time Lords, pointing to their heads.

"I wear Stetsons now." The Doctor put his thumbs in the waist of his trousers, grinning cheekily. "Stetsons are cool." They all flinched sharply as a gunshot rang out, and the Stetson went flying off his head with a new hole in it. The Poet quickly ripped hers off, hiding it behind her back as the group turned to see River Song, blowing the smoke from the muzzle and sticking the revolver back in the low-slung holster on her hip.

"Hello, sweetie." She smirked.

-o-

"Didn't think you liked soda pop, Poet." Alistair commented offhandedly as he, the Poet, and the Ponds accepted tall bottles of cola from the server at a little retro diner in the middle of the desert. The ginger sipped from the white straw in the top, looking relieved to have some sort of liquid after being in the sun. "I thought you'd drink, like, alien drinks and stuff like that."

"Nine hundred and three years. Of course I drink Coke, it's pretty good. All bubbly. Love you humans." The Poet commented as she sat in the red leather booth next to the Doctor, and was unexpectedly squished against him as Amy slid in after. The Poet shot her a mild glare, to which Amy responded by looking innocently away and taking another sip of pop. The guys scooted in next to River across from them, who was happily asking the Doctor how Jim the Fish was.

"Still building his dam." The Doctor muttered, earning a knowing laugh from River. They were both holding little rectangular books, worn down to yellow pages, which had covers that looked like the blue police box.

"Sorry, _what _are you two doing?" Rory asked.

"They're both time travellers, so they never meet in the right order." Amy explained. "They're synching their diaries. So, what's happening, then?" The redhead leaned forward to look at the Doctor. "'Cause you've been up to something."

The Doctor smiled briefly at her, but it didn't reach his eyes and fell very fast. "I've been running." He answered. There was something in his tone that the Poet couldn't quite place; it didn't sound good. "Faster than I've ever run. And I've been running my whole life. And now it's time for me to stop. So tonight, I'm going to need you all with me."

"Okay," Amy said, looking at the others' concerned expressions. "We're here. What's up?"

"A picnic." The Doctor said, slowly starting to smile again. "And then a trip. Somewhere different, somewhere brand-new."

"Where?" The Poet couldn't imagine anywhere neither of them had been, but now she and the others were smiling along with him.

"Space." The Doctor answered. "1969."

-o-

The Doctor had chosen their picnic destination, a lake that was still in the middle of nowhere. It was a white-sand beach in the desert, a little oasis. The Lake was not small, however. It was a true, real lake, with water the colour of the sky and bluffs of stone and salt that rose up around it in the distance. The group had all piled into the station wagon again, leaving it parked on the beach while they set out a blanket, a little plate of fruit and a bottle of red wine. The friends all laid or sat around, filing their glasses with the Doctor keeping the bottle.

The Time Lord raised the green glass in a toast. "Salut!"

"Salut!" They all parroted, and clinked glasses. The Poet almost broke hers, as she was lying next to the Doctor and overestimated the distance.

"So, when are we going to 1969?" Rory asked, eating a grape.

"And since when do either of you drink wine?" Amy added, looking to the Time Lords.

"I'm eleven hundred and three, must have drunk it some time." The Doctor took a confident sip from the bottle and immediately turned over his shoulder and spat it out, getting laughs from everyone gathered. "Oh, wine's horrid! I thought it would taste more like the gums."

"Eleven hundred and three?" Amy asked. "You were nine hundred and eight last time I saw you."

"And you've put on a couple of pounds." The Doctor retorted, getting a deserved smack from the Poet in Amy's defence, although they were both chuckling. "I wasn't going to mention it." The Poet noticed then that he was holding her hand, which under normal circumstances she wouldn't have minded, but considering his odd behaviour during the day, she was made a little suspicious.

"Who's that?" Amy's question derailed the Poet's train of thought. The young woman's gaze was turned up, squinting into the sun over their shoulders at something.

"Who's who?" Rory asked.

Amy looked over to her husband. "Sorry, what?"

"Who did you see? You said you saw someone."

"No, I didn't." Amy laughed as she took a sip of wine.

"Ah, the moon!" The Doctor gestured to the half-visible circle in the late afternoon sky. "Look at it! Of course, you lot did a lot more than just look, didn't you?" He asked, turning to the four humans. "Big silvery thing in the sky, you couldn't resist it. Quite right."

"Wait, isn't the moon landing in '69?" Alistair looked to the Poet for confirmation, and she nodded very slightly. "Is that why we're going there?"

"A lot more happens in '69 than anyone remembers." The Doctor replied quietly, even a little wistfully. "Human beings. I thought I'd never get done saving you."

They all sat for a moment, but their attention was drawn as a large white pickup truck crunched onto the sand behind them, stopping some distance away. The Doctor gave the Poet's hand just the tiniest, most subtle of squeezes before standing and raising that same hand in a silent wave. An older man with a white beard stepped out of the truck, waving silently back. The others stood as well, and the Poet noticed the Doctor seemed to almost sigh, and bow his head slightly.

"Oh, my god." River gasped. She was facing the lake, staring out at something. They turned as well to see an astronaut standing in the water, supposedly staring at them.

"You all need to stay back." The Doctor said solemnly. "Whatever happens now, you do not interfere. Clear?" He looked at them all briefly, but didn't wait for an answer and instead simply walked down to the astronaut.

"Poet," Alistair muttered, dusting sand off. "What the hell is the Apollo astronaut doing in a lake in the middle of nowhere?"

"Let's just wait." She breathed back. She wasn't sure, but she knew the Doctor knew, and she suspected it wasn't going to be good.

The astronaut lifted up the visor on the helmet, but from where they were standing, none of them could see who was inside. The two at the edge of the water seemed to be conversing, or at least, the Doctor was. He stopped gesturing and stood there for a second, head bowed. The astronaut lifted its arm to point at the Time Lord, and for a second, there was a beat of absolute silence.

Then, a crack as loud as an explosion echoed out, with a flash of green light that struck the Doctor square in the chest. Amy screamed and started running, but River and Rory grabbed her and held her back. The Poet could feel Alistair's wary eyes on her, as though he expected her to do something similar, but she was only shocked. She watched as the humans struggled a few steps away, and as the Doctor was shot again by the astronaut, and he went flying back to collapse on the sand.

He looked to them, kneeling on the ground as sparkling golden light began to seep from his hands. The Doctor looked to them and said something the Poet was sure the humans would have trouble hearing, but she heard all too clearly. "I'm sorry."

He stood, as light began to flow faster from his skin. He spread out his arms and began to fully regenerate. The Poet was almost at ease for a second. Until the astronaut shot him again, and the regeneration ended with the Doctor crumpling to the ground.

Now, not a one of them stayed back. The whole group, Poet included went running forward with a cry. The Apollo astronaut simply turned and began slowly walking into the lake. River and the Poet both fell to their knees next to the Doctor's body, bringing out their med scanner and sonic screwdriver, respectably.

"River," Amy sobbed, her voice rough and gasping. "Poet, one of you!"

The women got results at the same time. River looked to Amy, who began sobbing. "No, no . . ." She whimpered, in clear denial, her arms clutched around her knees, rocking back and forth slightly.

The Poet simply sat there, her mouth slightly agape, in total shock. River stood and pulled out her revolver; five loud shots rang out, but the Poet didn't hear them. She was crying, but it didn't feel real. Alistair was speaking, but whether it was to her or not, she didn't care. It wasn't real. None of it was real. It couldn't be real. It was too horrible to be real. It was too horrible to be a nightmare. She didn't even _dream_ of something this horrible happening. Her brain didn't function that way. So, like a machine, tears silently rolled in lines down her face, mouth open halfway in shock, mind coming to a screeching halt.

"I believe I can save you some time." The older man from the pickup was now right near them, and was speaking to them as a group. He took off his baseball cap in respect. "That most certainly in the Doctor. And he is most certainly dead. He said you'd need this." He set a red metal cylinder next to them, and the contents inside sloshed like water.

"Gasoline?" Rory asked lowly. It sounded more like a statement.

"Our bodies are miraculous." The Poet whispered. She didn't recognise her voice. "Even when we're dead. Empires would tear this planet, this solar system, to pieces for just a cell. We have to burn him."

Amy was still weeping, grabbing the Doctor's face. "Wake up! Go on, wake up, you stupid bloody idiot!" She let her red head fall to his chest, and her voice shook as she spoke through tears. "What do we do, Rory?"

"We're his friends. We do what the Doctor's friends always do." River picked up the can of gasoline. "As we're told."

"There's a boat." Rory said, looking to another part of the shore. "If we're going to do this . . . let's do it properly."

Night slowly fell as River and Rory carried the Doctor's body to the boat and set him inside, hands clasped on his chest like a Viking. They doused him in the gasoline and began pushing the boat into the water. Alistair helped the Poet to her feet; in the half an hour or forty-five minutes it had taken to prepare the Doctor's funeral, the Time Lady hadn't moved a single muscle. She barely breathed. But now, her friend was pulled her up to walk to the boat and pay respects. He led her over to the shore, where she slowly waded into the water beside Rory. He brought out a small box of matches and held them out to her.

The Poet looked at the little box for a second before accepting it. She removed one little sliver of wood and struck it on the side of the box. The flame shot up, a tiny torch in the gathering darkness. The flame jerked as the Poet finally let out a sob, and tossed it onto the Doctor. She backed out of the water as Rory pushed the flaming boat into the lake, and from the shore they watched it burn. Alistair held the Poet's hand and tugged her over to hug her, her arms limp at her sides as her weeping cries went muffled into his shirt.

"Who are you?" River asked, and they slowly turned to see her facing the elderly man, the Poet quickly trying to contain her sniffling. "Why did you come?"

"Same reason as you." The man reached into his jacket and pulled out a blue envelope. A second passed, and River pulled out her own from her pocket. Hand shaking, the Poet did the same and looked at the little number two on the back. "Doctor Song." The man said, nodding. "Amy. Rory. Alistair. Poet. I'm Canton Everett Delaware III. I won't be seeing you again, but . . . you'll be seeing me." He put his cap back on, smiling knowingly at them all, before walking back to his truck, picking up the empty gas can as he went.

River spun around. "Five."

"Sorry, what?" Rory asked.

"The Doctor numbered the envelopes."

-o-

"You got four, the Poet was two, I was three, Mr Delaware was five." River explained as they walked back into the diner they had visited before. Alistair still had his hands on the Poet's shoulders, wary of any sort of breakdown. She had lost it one more time on the ride back, bottled emotions spilling over and leaving her with a red nose and bloodshot eyes, but she was done now. She didn't have any plans to let her emotions get control over rational thinking.

"So?" Rory asked.

"_So,_ where's one?"

"What, you think he invited someone else?" Rory queried.

"He must have. He planned all of this to the last detail."

Amy had stopped walking to lean against an empty booth, a dead stare to her eyes. "Will you two shut up? It doesn't matter." She said quietly.

"He was up to something." River went on, talking animatedly to Rory.

"He's dead."

"Space 1969, what did he mean?"

"You're still talking, but it doesn't matter." Amy looked at them, almost offended.

"Hey, it mattered to him." Rory said.

"So it matters to us." River finished.

"_He's dead._" Amy hissed.

"Amy," The Poet drew their attention, having spoken her first word in hours. "I know. God, I _know. _I know better than anyone here, but right now we need to stop for a moment and think, and focus."

"Look." Rory pointed to a table at the far end of the diner. Next to a half-consumed bottle of Coke was a torn-open blue envelope with the number one on the back. Rory stepped up to the counter as the others hurried to the table. "Excuse me, who was sitting there?"

"Some guy." The man behind the counter answered.

River picked up the blue paper and turned to look at them. "The Doctor knew he was going to his death, so he sent out messages. When you know it's the end, who do you call?"

"Uh, friends, family, people you trust." Alistair answered, shrugging.

"Number one." River held up the envelope, her finger above the number. "Who did the Doctor trust the most?" The door to the men's opened behind them, like on a cue. An answer to River's question.

The Doctor grinned, pointing, as though surprised to see them all here. They stared at him in incredulity. Alistair cautiously put his hand back on the Poet's shoulder. "This is cold." River said, her voice leaning toward angry. "Even by your standards, this is _cold._"

"Or 'Hello!' as people used to say." The Doctor returned cheerily.

"Doctor?" Amy stepped forward.

"I just popped out to get my special straw." He held up the piece of plastic. "Adds more fizz."

Amy began circling the Doctor, and he spun around to keep looking at her. "You're okay." She breathed, and reached out to gingerly tap him. "How can you be okay?"

"Of course I'm okay, I'm always okay, I'm the king of okay." The Doctor hugged her, patting her back assuredly. "Oh, that's a rubbish title, forget that. Rory the Roman, that's a good title." He released Amy abruptly to step over and hug said Roman. "Hello, Rory." His gaze fell to the Poet and Alistair, and he stepped over to the former. "Ah, the gang's all here." He embraced the Time Lady, a sentiment that she did not return. "How've you been, love?" When she didn't answer, he stepped over to River, spirit not the least suppressed. "And Dr River Song. Oh, you bad, bad girl, what have you got for me this time?"

River promptly slapped him across the face. As he was still reeling, the Poet didn't slap but actually struck him the other direction. "Okay!" He looked between them. "I'm assuming that's for something I haven't done yet."

"Yes, it is." River hissed, staring at him with a gaze so intensely furious that the Poet was afraid it could melt steel.

"Good, looking forward to it." The Doctor muttered apprehensively.

"I don't understand." Rory said suddenly. He poked the Doctor's chest. "How can you be here?"

"I was invited." The Doctor grabbed the blue invitation. "Date, map reference. Same as you lot, I'd assume, otherwise it's a hell of a coincidence."

"What's going on?" Amy asked.

"Doctor, how old are you?" The Poet asked quietly.

"That's a bit personal." The Doctor said, putting the straw in his mouth.

"Tell her." River demanded. "Tell her what age you are."

"Nine hundred and eight." The Doctor answered, chin held high.

"Wait, didn't you say—" Alistair was cut off by River.

"So, where does that us?" She asked. "Jim the Fish? Have we done Jim the Fish yet?"

The Doctor grinned and laughed a little. "Who's Jim the Fish?"

"I don't understand." Amy said, her tone completely resigned.

"Yeah, you do." Rory said.

"I don't!" The Doctor cried. "What are we all doing here?"

The other five looked at each other, unsure of what to tell him, before River spoke. "We've been recruited. Something to do with space, 1969, and a man called Canton Everett Delaware III."

The Doctor was walking away from them, the straw still in his mouth, his expression stormy. "Recruited by who?"

"Someone who trusts you more than anyone else in the universe."

The Doctor turned to face them. "And who's that?"

River smiled a little and shook her head just slightly. "Spoilers."

-o-

The Poet stepped out of her TARDIS, taking off her hat as she walked to run a hand through her hair. Looking around at her friends, it seemed that none of them were faring much better, and all seemed to be at a loss for words, drifting in thought. The Doctor was unaffected, rambling as he walked around the console. It seemed the Poet had already missed some of what he had been saying, but caught the end bits.

"Canton Everett Delaware III, that was his name, yeah?" Amy, not paying attention to the Time Lord, walked away and into the area below the console. "How many of those can there be? Well, three, I suppose." River then followed Amy, and the Poet after her. Alistair followed her, leaving Rory up top.

Amy was sitting cross-legged under the hanging wires, the bluish lights that illuminated the glass floor up above shining down. "Explain it again." She said quietly.

"The Doctor we saw was a future version, two hundred years older than the one up there." River explained.

"But all that'll still happen?" Amy asked. "He'll still die?"

"We're all going to do that, Amy." River said.

"We're not all going to arrange our own wake and invite ourselves." Rory countered, putting an arm up and leaning forward. "So, the Doctor, in the future, knowing he's going to die, recruits his younger self and all of us to . . . to what, exactly? Avenge him?"

River shook her head. "Mm-mm, avenging's not his style."

"Save him, maybe?" Alistair suggested.

"That's not his style, either." Rory sighed.

Amy stood, looking determined. "We have to tell him."

"Actually, no, we can't." The Poet said sharply, and lowered her voice with a wary glance above them. "We can't tell him any more than we already have. Interacting with one's own past could have devastating consequences, such as tearing open the entire universe, for example."

"Except he's done it before." Amy whispered, her eyes taking on a look of desperation.

"And, in fairness, the universe did blow up." Rory replied reasonably.

"But he'd want to know!"

"Would he?" River asked. "Would anyone?"

The Doctor suddenly poked his head down to look at them upside-down, hair hanging. "I'm being extremely clever up here and there's no one to stand around, looking impressed. What's the point of having you all?" He vanished over the edge again.

River shook her head a little and turned to look at them. "Couldn't you just slap him sometimes?"

"We did." The Poet shoved her hands in her pockets and started back up to the console, Alistair tagging along behind. The Doctor was running around the controls, still, flipping levers and showing off something fierce. The Poet walked over and turned a couple switches, putting her hat back on. The Doctor grinned at her as he walked around again, but the Poet could only manage a weak smile in return as the others walked up to join them.

"Time isn't a straight line, it's all bumpy-wumpy." He announced once everyone was standing around. "There's loads of boring stuff, like Sundays and Tuesdays and Thursday afternoons. But now and then there are Saturdays, big temporal tipping points when anything's possible." He spun around to River, leaning against the console, and tapped her nose. "The TARDIS can't resist them, she loves a party, so I give her 1969 and NASA, 'cause that's space in the '60s, and Canton Everett Delaware III, and this is where she's pointing."

They all clustered around the scanner, craning to see. "Washington DC, April 8th, 1969. So why haven't we landed?" Amy inquired.

"Because that's not where we're going." The Doctor stepped away again.

"Where are we going?" Rory asked.

"Home! Well, you two are, anyway." The Doctor said to the married couple. "Off you pop and make babies. Dr Song, back to prison. Me, I'm late for a biplane lesson in 1911, which you could join in on if you wanted." He said to the Poet. "Or it could be knitting. Biplanes or knitting, one or the other."

The Doctor flopped down into a chair and held his forehead, like he was waiting for them all to leave. They gathered around him and waited for him to make a better decision. "What?" He looked up, clearly annoyed. "A mysterious summons? You think I'm just going to _go_? Who sent those messages?" He waited for a moment. "I know you know, I can see it on your faces. Don't play games with me, don't ever, ever think you're capable of that."

"You're going to have to trust us this time." River said quietly.

"Trust you? Sure." The Doctor stood to stand in front of River. "But first of all, Dr Song, just one thing . . . who are you?" He waited for an answer River didn't supply. "You're someone from my future, I get that, but who?" River still said nothing. "Okay . . . why are you in prison? Who did you kill? Now, I love a bad girl, me, but trust you? Seriously?"

"Trust me." Amy said, taking a step forward.

The Doctor turned and walked over to stand in front of her instead. "Okay."

"You have to do this, and you can't ask why." Amy said, voice quivering slightly.

"Are you being threatened? Is someone making you say that?"

"No."

"You're lying."

"I'm not lying."

"Swear to me." The Doctor suddenly demanded, not overly harsh. "Swear to me on something that matters."

Amy paused to think. There was a beat of tense silence before she smiled just slightly, the corners of her mouth tugging up half-heartedly. "Fish fingers and custard." She whispered.

The Poet had no idea what fish fingers and custard could mean to the both of them, but apparently it was a great deal, for the Doctor nodded slightly and returned the faint smile. "My life in your hands, Amelia Pond."


	19. Down The Rabbit Hole

_**aI'M SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG. **__I've been getting into Minecraft and playing with my mates, so I've basically been procrastinating. ;-; Plus I'm now really sick of this episode and have been working on the Doctor's Wife in the meantime. I am sorry for the shortness, but I really just wanted this chapter to be over and done with._

_**Fanfreak4ever,**__ in his/her last review, brought up the point on why __they__ don't want the Poet dead as well. The way I figure it, the Poet's been "lying low", in relative terms. If she'd been as outspoken as the Doctor, he'd have found or heard about another Time Lord looong before this story begins. Food for thought, and I'd try to get into it more but this AN is long as is. If you have questions feel free to PM me. Read, review, be merry._

_Since last chapter wasn't very original, after the two-part here we'll be taking a break from Doctor and Co to have another Poet-Ali adventure, with more OC in The Doctor's Wife!_

_W'P_

"_It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, a luster obliterates. There is little distinct left without an effort of memory, then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment - but who can be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer?" -Lord Byron_

_-o-_

"Canton Everett Delaware III!" The Doctor exclaimed, investigative powers at full blast, racing around the console. "Who's he?"

"Scanner, scanner, where's the scanner?" The Poet hummed, grabbing the screen as Alistair habitually pushed it around to her. "Thanks. Let's see . . ." Her fingers dashed over the keys before results promptly popped up on the screen, displaying a biography. "Looks like he's FBI. Well, ex-FBI. Kicked out."

"Why?" The Doctor called over.

"Hm." The Poet scrolled and typed a little more. "Won't say. Listed as 'un-patriotic behaviour while in the line of duty'. Could be virtually anything." Her hold on the scanner's handle tightened as the TARDIS jerked, flying through time. "Six weeks after he left, Mr President contacted him for a private meeting."

"Yeah, 1969, who's President?" The Doctor and River had both been moving over to her and now looked over at the screen as the Poet quickly brought up the answer.

"'Richard Milhous Nixon'" She said. "Hm, Vietnam, Watergate . . ."

"There's some good stuff, too." River pointed out, craning to see the scanner.

"Not enough." The Doctor muttered.

"Hippy!" River gasped.

"Archeologist." The Doctor retorted lowly.

"Oh, stop, both of you." The Poet said, slightly amused. "Here, we're getting close. What do you think?" She raised her voice a little to be heard by the Doctor, who had moved away.

"Since I don't know what I'm getting into, I'm being discreet, putting the engines on silent." He flipped a switch and a horrible screeching like metal on rock filled the room, making the humans grab their ears, and the Poet and River both lunge toward the switch the Doctor had flipped and flip it back to stop the noise.

The Time Lord poked back around, looking at them suspiciously. "Did one of you do something?"

They glanced at each other and shook their heads. "Nope, just watching the scanner." The Poet said, pointing and stepping over.

The Doctor nodded, still wary, and moved around to a different panel a few steps away. "Putting the outer shell on invisible. Haven't done this in a while, big drain on the power."

"You can make the TARDIS invisible?" Rory asked.

The Doctor grinned and pulled a switch. Massive spotlights around the room blasted on, shining blindly down until River leaned over and pulled the switch back with a whispered, "Very nearly."

She was almost caught that time as the Doctor stepped back over. "Er, did you touch something?"

"Just admiring your skills, sweetie." River said innocently.

"Good! You might learn something." He jumped over to the Poet, who had lost interest in the scanner, and banged on the screen. "Now, I can't check the scanner, it doesn't work when we're cloaked." The Poet muttered something too quiet to hear. "Um, just give us a mo." He ran over to the door, but slid to a stop and turned when he realised he was being followed by everyone. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, you lot, wait a moment. We're in the middle of the most powerful city in the most powerful country on Earth. Let's take it slow." He was edging over to the door and with the smallest of cheeky grins, stepped out.

There was an anxious pause. Alistair sidled up to the Poet. "What do we do now?" He whispered.

"The Doctor's right about one thing, there's no barging out there as a big group. So, we wait for him to do something silly. He's bound to, every time." The Poet sighed, and looked to River.

On cue, there was a great jerking shudder, making the occupants of the TARDIS stumble and lunge to grab something. "Every time." River ground out in exasperation. The Poet grabbed the scanner and pushed it over to River, grabbing a long line of cables as she went.

"He said the scanner wouldn't work." Rory said.

"I know. Bless!" River laughed as she took the cables form the Poet, and they quickly connected them to the scanner so an image of the Doctor pressed face-down on the carpet of the Oval Office, held by no less than four bodyguards.

"Poet, you got my scanner working yet?" He cried, his voice muffled a little.

"Oh, I hate him!" River grinned and nodded at the Poet.

"No, you don't." The Doctor muffled. In the screen, or at least what was visible, more men were ushering the President out of the room, and the ones holding the Doctor down were about ready to cart him off to prison. "_Make her blue again!_" The Doctor yelled, and the two women controlling the time machine turned a few dials and reversed the cloaking devices.

On-screen, they could see the Doctor being released, the Secret Service agents staring at the now-visible box in shock. The Doctor soon made himself comfortable after realising that he was relatively safe. Alistair turned to the Poet, but kept his eyes on the scanner until his head was completely turned. "Uh, should we go out there, or . . .?"

"Oh, we can leave him to try and explain himself for a while." The Poet said, mouth quirking a bit into a smirk. "Looks like we're going to need to interfere soon, though." She noted, as the Doctor got a dozen guns pointed at him. He had his feet kicked up on the President's desk, and didn't seem overly worried about it.

"Fellas, the guns, really?" He said, holding out his arms. "I just walked into the highest security office in the United States, parked a big blue box on the rug." He breathed a laugh. "You think you can just shoot me?"

"Interfering time." The Poet muttered as they ran to the door, River being first out, followed by Amy, Rory and Alistair, with the Poet bringing up the rear to close the door.

"They're American!" River cried, holding up her hands.

The Doctor stood up immediately, arms also up in surrender. "Don't shoot! Definitely no shooting!"

"Don't shoot us either!" Rory said as he led the others out. "Very much not in need of getting shot. Look, we've got our hands up."

"Who the hell are you?" Nixon demanded, looking at the new crowd of people in the Office.

"Sir, you need to stay back." A short man in a suit advised, whom the Poet could assume was Canton.

"But who-but who are they? What is that box?" The President pointed accusingly at the TARDIS.

"It's a police box, can't you read?" The Doctor snapped. "I'm your new undercover agent, on loan from Scotland Yard. Code name, the Doctor. These are my top operatives: the Poet, the Hair, the Legs, the Nose, and Mrs Robinson."

"I _hate _you." River growled quietly.

"No, you don't."

"Who are you?" Nixon asked.

"Boring question. Who's phoning you, that's interesting, 'cause Canton Three is right, that was definitely a girl's voice. There's only one place in America she can be phoning from."

"Where?" Canton asked, staring at the Doctor.

"Do not engage with the intruder, Mr Delaware." An agent said shakily, still pointing his gun at the confident Doctor.

"You heard everything I heard, it's simple enough. Give me five minutes, I'll explain." He sat back down. "On the other hand, lay a finger on me, or my friends, and you'll never, ever know."

"How'd you get it in here?" Canton asked, passing the TARDIS a glance. "I mean, you didn't carry it."

"Clever, eh?" The Doctor said.

"Love it."

"Do not compliment the intruder!" The agent from before said.

"Five minutes?" Canton asked.

"Five." The Doctor confirmed.

"Mr President, that man is a clear and present danger." The agent hadn't lowered his gun.

"Mr President, that man walked in here with a big blue box and five of his friends, and that's the man he walked past." Canton retorted with a point to the shaking agent. "One of them's worth listening to. What say we give him five minutes, see if he delivers."

"Thanks, Canton!" The Doctor replied.

"If he doesn't, I'll shoot him myself."

"Not so thanks." The Doctor muttered.

"Sir, I cannot recommend . . ."

"Shut up, Mr Peterson." Nixon cut in. "All right."

"Five minutes." Canton said sternly.

The Doctor took his feet off the desk and sat forward as the agents lowered the guns they were pointing at the five who were still standing by the TARDIS. He put his elbows up on the table and laced his fingers together. "I'm going to need a SWAT team ready to mobilise, street level maps covering all of Florida, a pot of coffee, twelve jammy dodgers and a fez."

"Get him his maps." Canton said. The Doctor seemed somewhat disappointed, but content with getting part of what he wanted. A few agents walked out of the room, supposedly to get the maps that were needed. Meanwhile, the group who had just gotten out of the TARDIS relaxed.

The Poet walked over to lean against the President's desk with the room to her back, crossing her arms and looking down at the Doctor. "'Take it slow'?" She asked accusingly.

"It was going slow!" The Doctor defended. "Until . . . you know, the guns."

The Poet chuckled. "It always goes slow until the guns, doesn't it?"

"Too many times." The Doctor agreed.

"By the way, there's no way I'm letting you get your hands on another fez." The Poet grinned.

"What!" He exclaimed indignantly. "And why is that?"

"You know, I love myself a good hat." The Poet tapped her bowler. "And a hat-wearer." She smiled and winked at the Doctor. "But fezzes are just absurd."

"Fezzes are cool." The Doctor huffed, but seemed somewhat amused nonetheless. The Poet chuckled and took off her hat to set it on the desk.

"Excuse me, but, who are you again?" The Poet turned around at Canton's question and half-sat on the desk, one leg up. "I mean, what's your name?"

"The Poet." The Time Lady answered. "I think the Doctor said that before?"

"But, your real names." Canton tried to clarify. "I already know those are your codenames."

"Just call us by the code names, then!" The Poet said with a shrug. "But, over there," She pointed at the others in turn. "Amy and Rory Pond, Alistair Donovan, Dr River Song."

Canton took a breath and raised his eyebrows. "Whatever you say, er, Poet."

He stepped away as the agents who had left returned with armfuls of rolled-up maps of Florida, detailed and vague, political and physical. They laid them on a coffee table in the centre of the room. River picked one up and unrolled it, glancing it over before laying it on the floor and kneeling to look it over. The Doctor shed his tweed jacket and tossed it over the back of a sofa and grabbed up a map of his own. The papers became quickly unrolled around the room, laid out on tables and the desk and sofas.

It became tiring as well as mildly boring, searching through maps for something the Doctor had only vaguely outlined. However, the Time Lord's manic energy kept them all with hopes that they were actually doing something worthwhile. Eventually, though, it came down to Amy and Rory sitting on a sofa, looking through a map together. River was on the one opposite, staring intently at another. The Poet felt some effects of the boredom from the others, like it was radiating off of them. She, like the Doctor, had ditched her jacket and sat with her sleeves rolled up and her hair mussed from running her hands through it too often. Even the agents guarding the door and watching their actions warily seemed to absorb some of the collective tiredness.

The only one who seemed immune was the Doctor, probably because he was the only one who knew exactly what they were looking for. He paced around the room, occasionally saying inspirational things to get their spirits up between grabbing up maps and tossing them away again. And it had only been four minutes and thirty seconds.

"Why Florida?" Canton asked, looking up at the Doctor.

"That's where NASA is. She mentioned a space man; NASA is where the space men live. Also . . . there's another lead I'm following." The Doctor ruffled through some more maps, muttering the last part of his statement.

"Poet," Alistair hissed, scooting closer to her. "He said space man. Does he mean the space man from the lake?"

"I should think." The Poet murmured, glancing warily at the Doctor. "But let's not jump to conclusions." She looked up to Amy, who was standing and looking at the door to the Oval Office.

"I remember." She breathed, staring with huge eyes. Rory stood up and moved in front of her and the door to ask her what she remembered. "I don't know, I just . . ." She put a hand briefly to her mouth like she was going to be sick and held a hand to her stomach.

"Amy, what's wrong?" Rory asked, concerned.

"Amy?" River looked up to the pair.

"You all right?" The Doctor glanced at them as he crossed the room to grab a map from behind the Poet.

"Yeah, no, I'm fine, I'm just . . . feeling a little sick." Amy walked over to Peterson and another agent who were in front of the door. "Excuse me, is there like a toilet or something?"

"Sorry, ma'am, but during this procedure you must remain inside the Oval Office." Peterson intoned.

"Shut up and take her to the bathroom." Canton snapped. Peterson made a slight face and nodded to the agent next to him, and he and Amy left the room.

"Florida, NASA, spacemen and a scared little girl that needs help." The Poet rolled up a map and tossed it over to the Doctor without looking up from the map she was studying. She ran a hand through her hair again as green eyes dashed across street names and blue water and parks. "Lots of fun, lots of fun, but what is it that we're looking for, exactly, Doctor?"

"Oh, I already told you what you missed on the answering machine." The Doctor walked by with the map in his hand and absently smoothed down a few stray bits of her hair that were sticking up more than the rest. The Poet fell back with a frustrated huff, but her head leaned just slightly into the Doctor's hand. "I'm sure you can figure it out."

"Your five minutes are up." Canton grumbled from in front of the President's desk.

"Yeah, and where's my fez?" The Doctor called back.

The Poet sat up again with a small intake of breath. "No." She breathed, and looked up at the Doctor, who was walking around the sofa to inspect a map that was on the desk. "It is, isn't it?" She grinned and shook her head when the Doctor nodded. "Can't believe I missed that."

"Wait, what?" Canton asked, looking between them. "What did you miss?"

"And I think I _saw _it, too!" The Poet grabbed up the map and began retracing her steps. "We'll tell you when we find it, Canton Three, because that is_ great_."

They all looked over to the desk as the phone rang loudly. Silence fell in the Oval Office for a moment. "The kid?" Canton asked.

"Should I answer it?" Nixon asked, standing.

"Doctor, it's here. I knew I'd seen it!" The Poet rushed over to the desk and spread the paper out, pointing with certainty to a spot. "Exactly where the call is coming from, courtesy the Doctor's brilliant little brain."

Canton bent to peer at the spot her finger had been as Amy and the agent from before walked back into the room. "You two are geniuses." The third son said, straightening.

"It's a hobby." The Doctor answered with a clap of his hands.

"Mr President, answer the phone." Canton said.

Nixon slowly reached down to pick up the bluish plastic, and press the speaker button on the receiver. "Hello. This is President Nixon."

"It's here!" The child's voice cried over the phone, sounding very panicked indeed. "The Space Man's here. It's gonna get me! It's gonna eat me!"

The Doctor turned around and grabbed his jacket, hastily pulling it on and tossing the Poet's over to her. River, Rory, Amy and Alistair were already hurrying to the TARDIS, stepping inside. "There's no time for a SWAT team, let's go!" The Doctor waited for the Poet to get in first before walking over himself. "Mr President, tell her help's on the way. Canton, on no account follow me into this box and close the door behind you."

"What the hell are you doing?" Canton asked from outside. Once he and the Doctor were both safely in the blue box, the Poet began dialing in coordinates for them ahead of time, and the Doctor walked around and pulled the launch.

"Jefferson isn't a girl's name, or her name either." The Time Lord stated as he circled around. "Jefferson, Adams, Hamilton—River?"

"Surnames of three of America's founding fathers." River answered immediately.

"Lovely fellas. Two of them fancied me. The President asked the child two questions. Where and who are you? She was answering where. Now where would you find three big historical names in a row like that?"

"Where?" Amy asked.

"Here! Come on!" The Doctor ran to the door and jumped out, followed by River and Amy. Rory had been standing next to Canton this whole time, and seemed unsure whether to follow them or not. The Poet stopped Alistair and reached into her pocket.

"You're the new ones, so you can flip for staying here." She plucked a coin from her jacket and flipped it in the air. "Alistair!"

"But you're new, too—heads!" The Poet caught it.

"Heads. Come along, Donovan." Rory made an exasperated face but stayed by Canton while they stepped out of the door. They were in the office of some sort of warehouse, though it was dark and dusty and there were bits of rubbish lying about. The Doctor was sitting in a chair by a dirty desk, feet kicked up again, waving a little American flag. Yellow light from streetlamps glowed at the windows between shades.

"Where are we?" Amy asked, looking around.

"About five miles from Cape Kennedy Space Centre. It's 1969, the year of the moon. Interesting, don't you think?" The Doctor set the flag back on the desk and stood. Amy turned on a torch, waving the light around as River took out her scanner. The Poet pulled her sonic out and began running it around the room.

"Why would a girl be here?" Amy looked over to the Doctor.

"I don't know. Lost, maybe." The Doctor replied. River picked up a phone on the desk and put it up to her ear. "The President asked her where she was and she did what any lost little girl would do." The Doctor lowered his voice to a murmur and looked out the window, rifling dust from the blinds and letting more gold light in. "She looked out the window." Outside, on the green street signs, were the street names Jefferson, Hamilton and Adams at a junction.

"Streets." Amy realised. "Of course, street names!"

"The only place in Florida, probably in all of America, with those three street names on the same junction and, Dr Song, you have that face on again." The Doctor turned to look at River.

"What face?" River looked up at him from her scanner.

"The 'he's hot when he's clever' face." The Doctor got a smug look on his face.

"This is my normal face." River defended.

"It is."

"Oh, shut up." River laughed.

"Not a chance." The Doctor leaned over to hold the phone receiver up to his ear, as Rory and Canton stepped out of the TARDIS. The Poet frowned and picked it up as he put it down to see what all the fuss was about. She nodded and set the phone back.

"We've moved." Canton said in amazement, spinning around a little with his arms out. "How, how can we have moved?"

"You haven't even gotten to _space travel _yet?" The Doctor asked exasperatedly.

"I was _going _to cover it with time travel." Rory said huffily, closing the door shut to emphasise his point. River and Amy were wandering into the rest of the warehouse, torch gleaming in the dark rooms.

"Time travel." Canton repeated, turning to point at Rory.

"Brave heart, Canton." The Doctor clapped. "Come on!" He turned and walked after the Poet and Alistair, who were both following the women into the warehouse. Alistair stuck very close to the Poet, looking warily around at the shadowy rectangles in the dark. When the torch's light fell on them, they were revealed to be gutted computers—or something technically-leaning, at least—that had different coloured wires hanging out morosely. Unopened crates sat around further off, some at least as tall as any one of them. Dust was clearly about, but not in the air yet.

"It's a warehouse of some kind. Disused." River stated the obvious, looking between her scanner and where she was going.

"You realise this is almost certainly a trap, of course." The Doctor said.

"Oh, yeah." The Poet said, almost amused. "Not a bad one, though. I've been in worse traps."

"I noticed the phone, yes." River said back to them.

"What about it?" Amy said over her shoulder.

"It was cut off." River answered. "So how did the child phone from here?"

"Okay. But why would anyone want to trap us?"

"Don't know." The Doctor said. "Let's see if anyone tries to kill us and work backwards."

"Poet, you knew this was a trap?" Alistair hissed.

"Just found out a minute ago with the phone." The Poet replied quietly. "So, calm down. Relax. It's just a little trap."

The group arrived at something of a clearing, where the crates and boxes had been pushed away. A tilted operating table was at the center; a light shone down at it from the ceiling. It was messy and broken, with what looked like organic slime stuck to some of the tubing. The Poet was on it in a second, just behind River, running her sonic around the metal.

"It's non-terrestrial, definitely alien, probably not even from this time zone." River said, reading from the scanner.

"Which is odd, because look at this!" The Doctor ran over to a collection of a few boxes. The Poet glanced over her shoulder, and seeing what he was so excited about, tucked away her sonic to go have a look.

"It's Earth tech, contemporary." River called over.

"Very contemporary. Cutting edge. It's from the space programme!" The Doctor rifled through the boxes, strips of packing paper getting ruffled up as he went.

"Stolen?" Amy asked, shining the torch at him. "What, by aliens?"

"Apparently." The Doctor grabbed a helmet and shoved it onto his head. His face was covered by a gold visor.

"Why? Amy brought up a good point. "If you can make it to Earth, why steal technology that can barely make it to the moon?"

The Poet was reaching into the box, grabbing a pair of big white gloves that she stuck on. She wiggled her fingers, grinning. "Maybe 'cause it's cooler." The Doctor replied, muffled through the visor, which he lifted a second later to reveal his wildly grinning face. "Look how cool this stuff is!"

"Cool aliens?" Amy asked skeptically.

"Well, what would you call me?" The Doctor asked, putting his palms up and doing a motion so silly the Poet had to laugh.

"An alien." Amy confirmed.

"Oi!" The Doctor began pulling the helmet off, having some trouble and ultimately getting his hair all stuck up. Rory and Canton joined them, both holding torches and looking around the room.

"I, er, I think he's all right now." Rory said unsurely, glancing at Canton.

The agent stared at the operating table for a second. "Like your wheels."

"That's my boy!" The Doctor exclaimed. "So come on—little girl, let's find her." He walked off, happy to explore the warehouse. Alistair was looking with barely-concealed disgust at the operating table and sidled over to the Poet, who was still going through the box of space programme things.

"Poet, what are you ding?" He whispered, watching the Time Lady dive through the crates.

"Having a good laugh." The Poet replied quietly with a smile that faded as she glanced at the Doctor. "I won't be having a good laugh for a while. This is certainly the space suit from the lake." She took off the gloves and tossed them back in the box with a sigh. "It's like watching a car crash."


	20. Lets Split Up and Search For Clues

_I'd like to take this opportunity to celebrate the 20__th__ chapter anniversary of this story, and wish the Great Britain Olympic team the best of luck out there in the coming days. Go get 'em, team!_

_W'P_

"_The existence of forgetting has never been proved: We only know that some things don't come to mind when we want them." -Friedrich Nietzsche_

_-o-_

"So, say, hypothetically," Alistair drawled, walking around a pile of crates to level his gaze at the Poet, who was inspecting said crates with half-hopeful interest. "Since you have a time machine, we could go back and, I don't know, stop you from stealing my clothes and food when I met you?"b

The Poet smirked dryly at his optimism. "Good thought, but no. That would mean that we would intersect with our own timelines, possibly create a parallel universe or destroy this present one." She glanced over at the Doctor to make sure he was out of earshot. "Same reason we can't go back and save him, or stop the astronaut now. We're here because of the Doctor and the astronaut, and what we saw and did in the future. If we stop it now, we'll never have come here, yada yada, time-ending paradoxes for everyone."

"Well, you didn't have to sound so happy about it." Alistair huffed.

The Poet looked down and spotted what looked like a long cable on the floor, that led around them, sprouting from the operating table. "Ooh, look at the tube." She stated curiously, at the same time that River called the Doctor over. The Poet followed them, and they stood around a manhole cover that the cables led into.

"So where does that go?" The Doctor asked to no one. Alistair and the others slowly joined them, edging forward.

River took out her scanner, sitting on the edge of the hole with her legs down. "There's a network of tunnels under here."

"Anything living?" The Poet asked.

"No, nothing that's showing up." River responded.

"Those are the worst kind. Be careful." The Doctor warned her, as River lowered herself into the hole.

"Careful? Tired that once. Ever so boring." River grinned as she began climbing down.

"Shout if you get in trouble." The Doctor told her.

"Don't worry," River said, grinning slyly as she was almost gone. "I'm _quite _the screamer. Now there's a spoiler for you!" Her voice echoed down in the tunnel. The Poet frowned slightly, though she couldn't—_or didn't want to, _a voice whispered—explain why.

"So what's going on here?" Canton asked.

"Nothing, she's just a friend." The Doctor spun around, looking at them all.

Rory paused and leaned forward. "I think he was talking about the possible alien incursion." He muttered.

The Doctor nodded and clapped Rory and Canton on the shoulders. "Okay." He walked back toward the tilted operating table and passed the Poet on the way over as the group dispersed to investigate the rest of the warehouse. Alistair walked off, looking less scared than before. Amy and Canton wandered away to inspect a shelf of miscellaneous alien things.

The Poet lingered at the operating table, looking at the tubes with moderate interest. She lifted one of the plastic bits, thinking about the odd feeling she had experienced previous. There wasn't quite a name to it, like she was angry and disappointed and a little sad at the same time. Staring into space, she searched her vocabulary for the correct word. What was it, on the tip of her tongue . . . Ah, yes. She remembered now. That was jealousy.

The Poet was jealous.

The Time Lady looked away, not like she had been really looking before, as River quickly came up from the manhole again, panting and eyes wide. A second later, she relaxed and looked to them. "All clear. Just tunnels, nothing that I can see. Er, give me five minutes, I want to take another look round."

"_Stupidly _dangerous." The Doctor called back.

"Yep, I like it, too." River said, and turned to say something to Amy before climbing back down.

The Poet looked back to the operating table, mentally leaning back into her contemplation of the fleeting jealousy she had felt. It was strange; almost unpleasant. She recalled experiencing it once before, long ago on Gallifrey in her second body. She had been a different person then, young and arrogant, guided by emotion rather than reason. It was nostalgic to recall such a fleeting, vain feeling as jealousy now, many hundreds of years later. She was old, now. Older than she ever let Alistair think she was. The Poet frowned, taking a deep breath. Too long. She'd lived too long, and she was getting tired.

"Are you upset about something?" The Doctor speaking slowly removed the Poet from her musing. "You look a bit . . . put-out."

"Oh, no, I'm just . . ." The Poet shook her head and smiled unconvincingly. "I'm fine. Thinking, is all. It's been known to happen."

They both smiled, a little humourlessly. There was a pause, and the Poet decided enough was enough. She had to say something. She had even said she was going to stop acting like a child. Now was the time to prove it. "Listen, Doctor, I—"

"Help me!" A young voice cried out from a hall. The five people in the room were instantly at attention, looking to where the voice came from. "Help, help me!"

"It's her!" Canton pulled out his gun and ran off to the doorway. The Poet went after him, patting Alistair's shoulder as he jogged up to join her. Amy came after, but suddenly doubled over in pain, gasping. The Doctor stopped to ask her if she was all right, as did the Poet. Alistair and Canton were already long gone, but the Poet, after getting a nod from the Doctor, went on to find the girl.

"Doctor!" Canton's voice yelled from the other room.

A shriek that could have been considered comical under any other situation followed, along with a panicked, "_Poet! Hurry up!"_

The Poet skid around the corner and saw Canton and Alistair both sprawled out on the floor, clearly unconscious. She ran up to her companion, sonic already out of her jacket, scanning his body. After realising he was only knocked out but otherwise fine, she sighed in relief and found out the same of Canton as the Doctor, helping Amy along, came into the room.

"Canton! Canton, are you okay?" The Doctor knelt and looked over the agent.

"He's fine, just out cold. A good bump to the head." The Poet sighed, and stood to have a quick glance around.

"Doctor, I have to tell you something." Amy insisted. "I have to tell you it now!"

"Not a great moment, Amy." The Doctor said, looking around and at the two unconscious men.

"No, it's important, it has to be now!" Amy cried.

"Help! Help me! Help me!" The Poet turned at the sound of the girl's cries, from the warehouse area with the operating table. Heavy footsteps thudded on the ground, approaching them. The Doctor stood, staring at the doorway. He and the Poet glanced at each other in worry.

Slowly, around the corner, an Apollo astronaut revealed itself. The Poet sucked in a breath, looking sideways at the Doctor. The astronaut stopped at the doorway. A long moment passed before it slowly raised its hand. Out of the corner of her eye, the Poet saw Amy turn and grab Canton's gun. She looked back in horror to the astronaut, which slowly lifted its visor to reveal the wide-eyed face of a young girl.

"Help me!" She screamed. The next few moments happened both in a blur, and in slow motion.

Amy turned and stood, aiming the gun. "Get down!" She cried, clearly not having seen that it was the girl.

"What are you doing!" The Doctor yelled at her.

"Saving your life!" Amy shouted back.

The Poet knew the more drastic consequences of this. "Amy, _no!" _Her voice was so loud, she almost didn't recognise it. But it didn't matter; if Amy killed the girl, it would create a catastrophic paradox. The Poet ran to the gun, trying to get in the way. Regenerating was better than whatever would happen otherwise.

The gunshot was louder than thunder, and Amy screamed as she saw the girl.

-o-

Alistair sprinted down the waterside. He was in some deciduous area or another, with a small nondescript lake on one side and a forest on his other. His trainers slipped in the mud of the bank, spattering dark dirt across his trousers. He stumbled and continued running, gasping for air. Alistair fumbled to a halt at the sight of several black-suited Secret Service agents standing on the bank a few metres away.

The ginger turned and ran back where he had come, but stopped in his tracks. A couple other agents flanked Canton Everett Delaware III. The third son leveled a revolver at Alistair, who put his hands up, gasping, and bowed his head.

"Go ahead and run." Canton demanded.

"Done plenty of that already, thanks." Alistair sighed, hunching over to catch his breath. "Like Boba Fett always said, 'You can run, but you'll only die tired.'"

"I like that." Canton cocked the gun. "Remind me to use it sometime." A loud gunshot made birds fly from the pine trees, and Alistair collapsed into the muddy grass.

-o-

A suburban street was lit up with a few yellow street lamps, casting several long shadows on the Poet as she ran down the street. Her feet were bare, a pair of shoes in her hand, with her other patting her bowler down. Black tally marks were all across her arms and legs, some on her collarbone and several on her neck. She ran off the street, out into the dark forest beyond. There was a chain link fence guarding the trees, and the Poet jumped at it and started climbing. She tossed her shoes over and hopped to the other side. Her dress caught on the edge and tore, leaving a strip of black cloth on the metal.

"Can't even go to a proper wedding any more." She muttered and continued dodging through the dark trees.

A tall figure stepped out in front of her, wearing a suit and with a large, pale head. The Poet fell to a stop and scrambled back to her feet, keeping her eyes on the alien at all times. She reached into the pocket of her dress and brought out a black Sharpie.

"That's a nice little trick on the memory you have working for you." She smiled and made a row of four marks a set of five. "Mind telling me how it works?"

The Poet could remember the warehouse, now. They were running, and there were aliens with suits. Running and yelling, but it was hazy. The Doctor was yelling at Canton, the Poet and Rory were carrying Alistair out. Amy was ahead of them and waiting, something was clicking. The air smelled of electricity and burning hair. The Poet touched a singed lock near her ear, with a smirk as she recalled it.

The alien tilted its head and leaned forward, making a quiet clicking noise. The Poet grinned and wiggled her fingers at it tauntingly. A pair of bright headlights suddenly blasted up at her from behind the alien. She looked around it and turned to see another car behind her. When she turned back, there was only the car. A few silhouettes of men approached her. The cars' lights turned off, revealing Canton and two other men. The Poet heard three pairs of footsteps behind her.

"Took us long enough to find you, Poet." Canton said. A few drops of rain began to drip down on them through the leaves.

"A few hundred years of practise, Canton." The Poet smirked and put her hands on her hips. "You know you can't kill me, right?"

"Sure." Canton loaded his gun patiently, tossing it back with a clack. He drew back the hammer and aimed it. "But I can try."

The Poet sighed. "Stubborn humans." She stepped to the side as several shots ran out through the forest, and dove face-first into the nearest tree.

The Poet kicked the door shut with her foot from the floor, and the TARDIS locked itself to protect her. She jumped to her feet and ran to the console, typing in a few commands. The TARDIS shook violently, and sparks jumped form the controls. The Poet flinched away and waggled her burnt hand, hissing. "Ooh, ow! Be good, now, what's wrong? Where's the Doctor hiding now?" She leaned down and pressed her ear to the console and listened. "He what? That man . . ." She slammed a few levers down hard, grimacing.

The TARDIS landed with a jerking so violent the Poet went toppling over, holding her hat. She crouched on the ground for a moment before slowly standing. She dashed over to the door and grabbed an extra jacket off the hat rack by the door. Pulling it on, the Poet warily opened the door and peeked out. The mostly yellow inside of the Doctor's TARDIS greeted her, lights winking.

"Oh, brilliant." The Poet hopped out with a sigh. She walked over to the console and brought the scanner around to look at it. She looked out at a black room, with Canton standing at the door and the Doctor sitting in a chair, straitjacketed and scraggly. Chains were wrapped around his body, and three black body bags were positioned around him.

"Nothing can penetrate these walls." Canton put his fingers into coinciding holes in the wall, and the door, which looked just as the walls, slid closed. "Not a sound, not a radio wave. Not the tiniest particle of anything. In here, you are literally cut off from the rest of the universe." He turned and looked at the Doctor. "So I guess they can't hear us, right?"

"Good work, Canton. Door sealed?"

"You bet." The Doctor stood and shook off the straightjacket and chains, which rattled to the floor. The Poet left the scanner and ran to the door, tossing it open to grin at the stretching Doctor. Amy, Rory and Alistair were gasping for air, wriggling free of their body bags.

"Well, almost cut off from the universe." The Poet grinned, leaning against the invisible doorframe to the TARDIS. She was a sight for sore eyes, dirtied from running, covered in tallies and wearing a dress with a piece torn from it. Her hair was messy under her hat, and there was a long cut under her jaw. "I mean, I can always get in here."

"Ah, there you are, Poet!" The Doctor greeted. He had grown a full beard, and his hair was longer than normal. "Was wondering when you'd break in here."

"Sooner or later, you know." She reached out and gave his beard a good-natured scratch. "Looking a bit scraggly there, love."

"These things could really do with air holes." Rory gasped, throwing away his body bag.

"Never had a complaint before." Canton replied.

"Isn't it going to look odd that you're staying in here with us?" Amy asked as she stood up.

"Odd, but not alarming. They know there's no way out of this place." Canton watched them all stretch out and relax; the three humans gasping for air, the Doctor waving his arms back and forth, and the Poet rolling her neck and combing her fingers through her hair.

"Exactly. Whatever they think we're doing in here, they know we're not going anywhere." The Doctor fell against the invisible TARDIS, and its outline shimmered. "Shall we?"

"What about Dr Song?" Canton asked as they all piled into the blue box. "She dove off a rooftop!"

"Don't worry. She does that." The Doctor answered, running to the console. The Poet shut the doors as the Time Lord flipped a few switches. "Amy, Rory, open all doors to the swimming pool!" The couple quickly ran off down a hall behind the console.

The TARDIS came to a halt, and the Poet stepped over and opened both doors wide. "Whoa!" She jumped to the side as River came falling head-first in a dive through the door. She went straight past the console tower and into the hall. A few seconds later, there was a great splash from the swimming pool, so large from the fall that water came up through the room horizontally and even out the door, falling back to, once one thought about it, defy gravity itself.

"So, we know they're everywhere. Not just a landing party, an occupying force. And they've been here a very, very long time. But nobody knows that, 'cause no one can remember them." The Doctor walked around the console, now joined by the Poet that no doors needed opening. River arrived, shaking a towel through her blond hair.

"So what are they up to?" Canton asked him.

"No idea. But the good news is . . . we've got a secret weapon." The Doctor ran to the door and stepped out, closely followed by the others. They were in a huge plain, light grass growing on the beige dirt. Off in the distance, but still huge from where they were, was a history-making rocket ship.

"Apollo 11 is _not _your secret weapon." The Poet crossed her arms.

"No, no, not Apollo 11, that would be silly." The Doctor's smirk was hidden beneath his scraggly beard. "It's Neil Armstrong's foot."

-o-

The night was rainy; buckets of water poured from the sky around the large, old estate. Long grass grew in the garden, and unkempt shrubs flanked the double doors. The building quite clearly had seen better days. A black sedan rolled up the gravelly drive, and thunder growled overhead. The radio was on inside: "_In just a few days mankind will set foot on the moon for the first time. The President has reaffirmed America's commitment . . ."_

Canton reached forward and flicked it off. The Poet watched him look between her and Amy, the Time Lady reclining in the back seat and casually examining her hand. They were all in black suits, though she and Amy were in skirts and had their hair up to accommodate the time period.

"Ready. Check?" Canton asked them. They looked at the their hands.

"Clear." Amy confirmed.

"Clear." The Poet said from the back.

"Clear." Canton finished. The rain pattered down on them as they three climbed out of the car.

-o-

"Ow!" Canton flinched away from the Doctor, who was wielding what looked like a small paintball gun, which was never a good thing.

"So, three months, what have we found out?" The Doctor reloaded and moved around the console.

"Well, they are everywhere. Every state in America." Rory said, watching the Doctor, who grabbed his hand and shot it with the little gun. "Ow!"

"Not just America, the entire world." The Doctor continued on to Alistair.

"I can confirm that, I was in southern Canada for a month." The ginger warily watched the Doctor. "Oh, no, no, no—ow!"

The Poet chuckled, getting a dirty look from Alistair, who crossly rubbed his hand. "There's a greater concentration here, though." River said, watching the scanner.

The Poet walked over to her companion as the Doctor went to inject Amy. "Ooh, that looks painful." She grinned at the red, already swollen spot on Alistair's hand.

"Oh, you'll get yours." He responded icily.

"How was Canada this time of time?" The Poet asked, still observing his hand, turning it over. She tapped the red spot, and a little light began blinking. "Ooh, there's a light."

"Hey, stop messing with the thing in my hand." Alistair tapped his hand again, and the couple sentences they said were repeated. "Well, that's interesting. Also, Canada was nice."

The Poet yelped. "Ow!" She waggled her hand, the Doctor giving her a look that might have been apologetic if not for the fact that he seemed far too happy to be in charge of the little gun. Meanwhile, Alistair was laughing a little too hard.

"So you've seen them, but you don't remember them." Canton confirmed, drawing their attention.

"You've seen them too. That night at the warehouse, remember? While you were pretending to hunt us down we saw hundreds of those things. We still don't know what they look like." River leaned out from behind the scanner to look at him.

"It's like they edit themselves out of your memory as soon as you look away." Rory explained. "The exact second you're not looking at them, you can't remember anything."

"Sometimes you feel a bit sick though, but not always." Amy added.

"Really? Maybe I just imagined being nauseous for about three months." Alistair muttered sarcastically, getting an elbow to the ribs from the Poet.

"So that's why you marked your skin?" Canton asked, not having heard Alistair.

"How else would we know?" The Poet asked rhetorically.

"How long have they been here?"

"That's what we've spent three months trying to find out." Amy answered.

"Not easy, when you can't remember anything you discover." Rory elaborated.

"But how long do you think?"

"As long as there's been something in the corner of your eye, or creaking in your house, or breathing under your bed or voices through a wall." The Doctor walked up to Canton, harmless gun still drawn. "They've been running your lives for a very long time now, so keep this straight in your head. We are not fighting an alien invasion, we are leading a revolution. And today the battle begins."

"How?" Canton breathed.

"Like this." The Doctor reached behind him without looking and shot River's hand.

"Ow!"

"Ha ha!" The Doctor laughed, turning and examining the gun. "Nano recorder. Fuses with the cartilage in your hand." He shot his own hand. "Ow! Then it tunes itself directly to the speech centres of your brain. It'll pick up your voice, no matter what. Telepathic connection. So the moment you see one of the creatures, you activate it." He touched his palm, and the little red light began flashing. "And describe aloud exactly what you're seeing."

The Doctor pressed his hand again, and the recording played. "_'And describe aloud exactly what you're seeing._' Because the moment you break contact, you're going to forget it ever happened. The light will flash if you've left yourself a message. You _keep checking your hand_. If you've had an encounter, that's the first you'll know about it."

"Why didn't you tell me this before we started?" Canton asked, as the Doctor walked to the console.

"I did. But even information about these creatures erases itself over time. I couldn't refresh it, 'cause I couldn't talk to you." The Doctor pressed a couple buttons on a panel. Canton glanced over his shoulder for a second; when he looked back, he reached forward and straightened the Doctor's bow tie. Everyone else watched him like a hawk while he did this, crowded behind the Doctor.

"What?" Canton looked at them. "What are you staring at?"

"Look at your hand." River said slowly.

Canton looked to his hand. The light was flashing. "Why's it doing that?" He asked, voice edged with fear.

"What does it mean if the light's flashing? What did I just tell you?" The Doctor asked him.

"But I didn't . . ."

"Play it."

"_My god, how did it get in here?" _Canton spoke from the recording.

"_Keep eye contact with the creature, and when I say, turn back, and when I do, straighten my bow tie." _The Doctor instructed.

Canton slowly turned around, and they watched him. One of the aliens was standing inside the TARDIS. Meanwhile, the recording continued to play. _"What? What are you staring at?"_

"_Look at your hand."_

"It's a hologram, extrapolated from a photo on Amy's phone." The Doctor explained, and the hologram dissipated. "You just saw an image of one of the creatures we're fighting. Describe it to me." He snapped his fingers.

"I can't." Canton realised after a moment.

"No. Neither can I. You straightened my bow tie because I planted the idea in your head while you were looking at the creature."

"So they could do that to people." Amy said. "You could be doing stuff and not really know why you're doing it."

"Like post hypnotic suggestion." Rory added in.

"Ruling the world with post hypnotic suggestion."

"Now then, little girl in a space suit." The Doctor said, drawing their attention. "They got the space suit from NASA, but where did they get the little girl?"

"That could be literally anywhere." The Poet reasoned, leaning against the console.

"Except they probably stayed close to that warehouse, 'cause why bother doing anything else? And they take her from somewhere to cause the least amount of attention. But you'll have to find her. I'm off to NASA. Poet, you mind going with them?" A map of America zoomed in on Florida to pinpoint possible locations.

"My pleasure." The Poet replied.

"Find her? Where do we look?" Canton asked.

The Doctor turned to him. "Children's homes."


	21. Silence Will Fall

_FAST UPDATES! SUPER FAST!_

_I've had a couple questions about the Doc/OC nature of this story and, to settle any further inquiries, there will be eventual Doctor/Poet. __**WHICH MEANS CANON RULES ARE GOING TO BE BROKEN! HARD! **__So any hardcore fans of River/Doctor may want to find the exit, located at the end of the labyrinth behind the Minotaur. Thank you, and read on!_

_W'P_

"_If you press me to say why I loved him, I can say no more than because he was he, and I was I." -Michel de Montaigne_

_-o-_

Thunder boomed overhead, following a bolt of lightning that blasted the front step of the Greystark Hall Orphanage, and the three people standing there, one hanging back, simply there to supervise. A nervous-looking man opened the door, staring at them with large, scared eyes. He was balding and shaking minutely, clutching a handkerchief.

"Hello?" He greeted quietly.

Canton held up his ID. "FBI. You must be Dr Renfrew. Can we come in?"

"The children are asleep . . ." Renfrew protested shakily.

"We'll be very quiet." Amy said reassuringly.

"Is there a problem?" The orphanage owner asked.

"It's about a missing child." Canton answered.

"What are you . . . yes, yes, come in." Renfrew opened the door and shuffled back, letting them inside. The house was in even worse shape inside. The wallpaper was peeling off in great strips, and water dripped through the ceiling from the rain. It had clearly once been a very beautiful building, but the damp and rot had dilapidated the gorgeous architecture. The stairs creaked as they stepped up, following Renfrew. On the wall, written in what _looked _like red paint, were the words: "GET OUT LEAVE NOW", which had been partially washed away.

"This way," Renfrew said, beckoning. "Please excuse the writing. It keeps happening. I try to clean it up."

"It's the kids, yeah?" Amy asked. "They do that?"

"Yes, the children." Renfrew muttered. "It must be, yes."

The Poet reached out and dabbed some of the paint, touching her tongue. "I don't think so." She said under her breath.

Renfrew reached out and rubbed some of the paint away with his handkerchief, and his sleeve pulled back to reveal the words "Get out" written on his wrist. "Anyway, my office is this way."

"We nearly didn't come to this place." Canton told him as they continued up the stairs, walking across a landing and up another staircase. "I understood Greystark Hall was closed in '67."

"That's the plan, yes." Renfrew said, voice still quiet and almost whimpering.

"The plan?" Amy asked.

"Not long now."

"It's 1969." Canton corrected. The Poet looked at Renfrew, frowning. His demeanor was raising some red flags for her, and she kept an eye on him and why he would be acting as such.

"No, no," Renfrew denied. "We close in '67. That's the plan, yes."

"You misunderstood me, sir." Canton reiterated. "It's 1969 now."

"Why are you saying that? Of course it isn't." Renfrew frowned at them, though his eyes were still weirdly large, like he was perpetually scared.

"July."

"My office is this way, this way." Renfrew muttered, turning down to walk up a smaller staircase. The "agents" stopped on the landing and looked at each other.

"Listen, you two," The Poet said quietly. "Something doesn't smell right. Investigate if you wish, but be careful and remember your nano recorder." She pointed at each of them. "I'm going downstairs. Yell if you get in trouble."

"I'm going to check upstairs." Amy started off to the next staircase up, and Canton turned to follow Renfrew.

The Poet started down the stairs, grimacing as she turned her ankle in her shoes, slipping on the wood stairs shiny with water. She plucked an earpiece from her jacket and secured it, pulling out her sonic as she walked. "Doctor, you there?"

There was a pause, some crackling, and then the Doctor spoke. "Yes, hello, Poet. Where are you?"

"An orphanage. This is definitely where that little girl was." The Poet opened a door to a bedroom on the ground floor, and it creaked open. Bed frames and a couple dirty mattresses were along the walls. A couple torn teddy bears or broken toys lay about.

"How can you tell?" The Doctor asked. There was a faint clanking in the background.

"The aliens have definitely been here, but it's deserted. The owner has seen them so many times, his mind is completely fried." The Poet looked around the room, pressed a hand on a mattress and sonicing the wall.

"Okay, find out what you can, but don't hang around." The Doctor told her. There were more clanking noises, and then the sound of footsteps.

"Doctor, where are you?" The Poet straightened up and listened to the other end for a moment. "Are you stealing something?"

"Gotta go! Got company!" The Doctor exclaimed, and the line went out. The Poet rolled her eyes and turned off her earpiece. She looked around the room a bit, but seeing nothing important, turned around to walk out. As she did, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in one of the few windows. There were a few tally marks on her neck.

Her hand tightened around her sonic, and she looked down to her arms. They were covered in the little black lines. Looking to her hand, she saw the light flashing, and played the recording. "_Poet," _She whispered to herself. "_Don't look up. Just do an about-turn and walk right out of here, get Amy and Canton, and—Oh, hell, they've seen me!" _

The Poet sighed, clenched her teeth, and willed herself not to look up as she marched to the door and walked out. As she took the doorknob, a flashing light reflected on the rusty bronze. Eyebrows raised, the Poet stopped and touched her palm. _"Run, you idiot!" _She cried over the recording.

She couldn't resist now. The Poet turned around and saw a tall, thin alien with a bulbous white head and tiny eyes reaching out to her. It made a clicking noise and tilted its head. The place where its mouth should have been began sucking in. Without thinking a second more, the Poet turned and ran out of the room, tearing up the stairs to get Canton.

Before she could even start up the stairs, she stopped and blinked. "Huh. Okay . . . damn, I bet it was one of those—" From upstairs, Amy screamed. "Creatures. Amy!"

The Poet ran up the staircase to Renfrew's office, now holding her bothersome shoes and getting her feet wet through the stockings. She ran into Canton, who was holding his gun. "What happened? Why are you holding your gun?"

"I'm going to assume I shot something. Now let's move!" Canton took off up the stairs, the Poet sliding around after him.

They reached the hallway on the top floor, and Amy was yelling from one of the doors. "Help me! Please, I can't-I can't see! Somebody help me!"

Canton threw himself into the door, trying to shoulder it down. However, the door seemed to be made of iron and was probably a couple inches thick. "Amy! Amy, can you hear me?" He tossed himself at the door again. "Amy, I'm going to try to blow the lock. I need you to stand back."

Just as Canton pulled out his gun, two Time Lords pushed him away and both tried to sonic the lock, and the hall was suddenly crammed with people from Alistair to River. The door was open twice as fast and they crushed inside, looking around the room. It was a young girl's bedroom, though clearly abandoned. Stuffed animals were strewn about, the evidence of a struggle all around. An astronaut suit was lying on the floor, crushing a cradle.

The Poet scanned the suit as River knelt and opened the visor. "It's empty." She said.

"It's dark, it's so dark. I don't know where I am. Please, can anybody hear me?" The sobbing came from a tiny, flashing red light on the rug. Rory knelt and carefully picked it up, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. They watched him grimly, as he held the voice of his wife in his hand.

"They took this out of her." Rory said quietly. "How did they do that, Doctor?" Amy continued her weeping. "Why can I still hear her?"

"Is it a recording?" River asked.

The Doctor soniced it for a moment, his face solemn. "It defaults to live. This is current." He muttered. "Wherever she is now, this is what she's saying."

Rory held the recorder to his mouth. "Amy, can you hear me? We're coming for you, wherever you are, I swear, we're coming."

"She can't hear you." The Doctor said morosely. "I'm so sorry, it's one-way."

"She can always hear me, Doctor. Always, wherever she is. She always knows that I am coming for her, do you understand me? Always." Rory glared at the Time Lord, eyes steely.

Amy's next words, however, made Rory's heart almost visibly break. "Doctor, are you out there?" Rory stared in shock at the recorder, and the Doctor bit his lip. "Can you hear me? Doctor? Oh god. Please, please just get me out of this."

Rory and the Doctor stared each other down for a minute, before Rory brought the recorder to his mouth again. "He's coming. I'll bring him, I swear." It was not a promise to Amy, more than it was a demand of the Doctor.

"Hello, is someone in there?" A timid voice called, and the party swiveled to face the door, Canton aiming his gun, but he put it down upon seeing Dr Renfrew. "Who . . . I think someone has been shot. I think we should help. We . . . I-I can't remember." He turned and started leading them out.

A dresser with several framed pictures on it caught the Poet eye as they walked out, and she hurried over to have a quick look. They were all of a girl at different stages in life, up until she looked to be about six or seven. The Poet stepped forward to observe one further back, and heard glass crunching under her foot. She jumped away, still having no shoes on. She bent and picked up a picture, the glass in the frame broken. It was of the girl being held by her smiling mother; her mother, who was undeniably Amy Pond.

"What . . ." She breathed, staring at the photo.

"Poet, you coming?" Alistair peeked through the door, and the Poet hurriedly set the picture down.

"Ah, yes, coming." The Poet jammed her shoes on her feet and clopped down the hall. "Following Renfrew, yes? And where have you been, mister?"

"I guess. And for your information, _Poet, _I've been hanging out with President Nixon." They arrived at Renfrew's office, where an alien was lying bleeding on the floor. It pushed itself away from them as the Doctor stepped forward, hand outstretched.

"Okay." He said. "Who and what are you?"

"Silence, Doctor." The thing said. Its voice was gravelly and strange. "We are the Silence." The Poet flashed back to her parting with Sh on Minerine, and his final warning. As if hearing her thoughts, the Silent went on to say, "And silence will fall."

-o-

They had taken the space suit back to the warehouse. Canton was back in 1969 with the President, helping plan the next step. River and the Doctor were dissecting and inspecting the suit on the operating table. There was a small, black-and-white television on one of the crates, displaying the live preparations for the launch of Apollo 11. The Poet was sitting and watching it, moderately interested, but letting her thoughts wander. Rory was sitting away from them, listening to Amy cry over the recorder.

Metal scraped on metal as Alistair pulled a chair up next to the Poet. She glanced at him, nodding a little in greeting. "How're you doing, Poet?" He asked gently.

She looked to her companion with a slight frown. "What do you mean? I'm fine. Just watching telly." She gestured to the TV.

"Oh, don't even do that." Alistair scoffed, leaning back. "I know you're not fine. Trust me, I know."

"Do you?" The Poet shot over, her tone slightly more cold than she meant it to be. She sighed and put her hand over her face, resting her elbows on her knees. "What's wrong with me, Alistair? I haven't felt this angry in so long and I don't know why . . ."

"You're in love."

"What!" The Poet straightened up, staring at him with a mix of amusement and surprise. "How in the world did you come to _that _conclusion?"

"I've been around long enough to know. Not as long as you, but you have a tendency to overlook the obvious." Alistair smirked, as though her reaction proved his point. "I see how you look at him." He jerked his head back at where the Doctor and River were standing over the space suit. "And don't forget, I was there right after you snogged him at Amy's wedding."

"Well, so what?" The Poet said defensively, and a bit too fast. "People snog people all the time, sometimes no reason, what of it? And you were drunk, your judgment was all off, and I had been drinking too."

"Exactly." Alistair laughed, became more serious. "Poet, I don't know how relationships work on Gallifrey; but you need to talk to the Doctor about this regardless."

"There's nothing to talk about." The Time Lady crossed her arms and fell back in her chair. "When you're as old as I am, Alistair, you learn that you can't always win. Look at that pair." She shrugged back at the operating table. "Peas in a pod. I'm not going to come between that. I've had to make this decision before, Alistair, and it never gets any better." She sighed and ran her hand down her face, and for a moment, she let that mask slip. The one where she was always happy and interested in new things. For a second, she looked immensely sad, and old, and tired. And most of all, in that moment, pained.

"I pray you never have to do what I'm doing, Alistair." The Poet finally muttered. "Being the good guy is a sacrifice to your own happiness."

"Then don't be the good guy." Alistair said simply. "Let yourself be happy for once."

"And do what?" The Poet snapped. "Just confront him? I'm the biggest coward in the universe, from the day I was born. It isn't that simple for me. I couldn't be brave for my planet, I couldn't be brave for my loved ones, and I often can't be brave for those I need to help."

"Then be brave for him." Alistair stated bluntly, watching her seriously. The Poet hung her head, taking off her hat and running a hand through her hair.

"_This is Houston, do you read? Over._" The TV crackled out.

"Why does it look like a NASA space suit?" Rory asked. The Poet decided to tune into the conversation, listening now.

"Because that's what the Silence do. Think about it." The Doctor paced around, getting on a train of realisations. "They don't make anything themselves. They don't have to. They get other life forms to do it for them."

"So they're parasites then?" River piped up.

"Super parasites. Standing in the shadows of human history since the very beginning. We know they can influence human behaviour any way they want. So if they've been doing that on a global scale for thousands of years . . ."

"Then what?" Rory asked.

The Poet looked over as the Doctor stepped over to watch the television. "Then why did humans suddenly decide to go to the moon?"

"_Ten, nine, ignition sequence start, six, five, four . . ." _They watched Apollo 11 getting ready for takeoff.

The Doctor finished his own thought. "Because the Silence needed a space suit."

"_. . . one, zero. All engines on. Lift off. We have lift off._" The rocket soared into a sky, the very mascot for human expansion around the universe. "_32 minutes past the hour, lift off on Apollo 11." _

The Poet watched the TV, as Apollo 11 made a trail of smoke in the sky, and people who were there looked on in awe, shielding their eyes from the sun. She smiled at the hopeful expressions on their faces, thinking to her encounters of humans across the universe in the future, and how this one small rocket made using less technology than her sonic screwdriver would pave the way for explorers across the stars.

"Inspiring, isn't it?" She murmured, smiling slightly at the television.

"Yeah." Alistair responded, staring in wonder to rival the people on screen. "Kinda surreal to be here, watching it."

"Mm, this is one time I haven't been yet." The Poet mused, placing her hands on her hat in her lap. "Quite the . . ." She trailed off as the camera changed to another shot of the people present at the launch. A woman in a dark sundress, the colour of which was hard to tell from the black and white TV, was watching the rocket with a hand over her eyes to block the sun. A choker necklace in a style reminiscent of the 1920's hugged her neck, and her hair was done up in a bun. She looked to the camera and did a double take, staring in shock and worry. In the blink of an eye she vanished in the gathered crowd. The camera changed back to the scientists monitoring the Apollo.

"Poet?" Alistair leaned forward and waved a hand in front of her face, snapping the Poet away from her staring. "You still with us?"

"Ah, yeah, still here." She shook her head, but still thought about the odd woman. "I just saw someone . . . she looked familiar."

"Well, who was she?"

"I don't know." The Poet rubbed her chin. "There was something vaguely familiar about her, I can't quite place it. Where have I seen her before? Oh, this is just going to kill me . . ."

They turned as a rasping voice sneered from behind them, "You should kill us all on sight." The pair in front of the TV turned and saw the Doctor holding River's scanner, watching a short video clip of the injured Silence scoffing at Canton.

"This suit, it seems to be repairing itself." River said from across the room. "How is it doing that?" The Doctor pocketed the device and walked back to the table, and the Poet and Alistair turned back. The Time Lady was still thinking of the woman on TV, getting bugged like nothing else.

"Argh!" She groaned, clutching her hat. "Where have I seen her before?!"

"Calm down, Poet, probably just a doppelganger." Alistair patted her shoulder wryly. "Happens all the time, nothing to worry about."

"It looked like she needed to say something." The Poet thought furiously, rifling through her memory. "It wasn't like I really recognised her, more like she seemed vaguely familiar, like how you know someone's relative by their eyes or nose or ears."

"I'm sure you'll figure it out. Déjà vu, I get it all the time." Alistair grinned. "Like you lost a life and restarted at the last checkpoint!"

"Oh my god." The Poet breathed, the pieces clicking together. "No. No, no, no, no, no, and three times no!" She stood and started pacing, agitated now, but keeping her eyes on the screen. "I don't understand. This is no less than a road trip, a plane ride and several long jumps from sense."

"Poet, _what _is wrong with you?" Alistair stood and clapped his hands on her shoulders. "Do you know her?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, I know that woman very well." The Poet shoved her hat on, jaw clenched. "And I want to know why she was there. Because she's—"

"Time to go!" The Doctor announced urgently, waving to the TARDIS. "Poet, could grab the television for me please, we'll be needing that. River, armed and ready. Alistair, Rory, have your guard up. Come on, everyone, we have a planet to liberate!"

Alistair made a little whining noise, still not knowing why the Poet had her dander up. She grabbed the TV and headed toward the blue box with Alistair just behind, pouting. The TARDIS took off the second the doors were closed, shaking and landing at its destination. The Poet handed the TV off to the Doctor and took out her sonic as they piled out into a dark room that looked similar to another she had been in. Several of the Silence stood around, one directly in front of Amy, who was strapped to an operating table.

"Oh! Interesting. Very Aickman Road, seen one of these before. Abandoned, wonder how that happened." The Doctor walked casually into the room with the TV, stepping past the Silence. "Oh, well! You lot from the TARDIS, keep one Silent in eyeshot at all times. Oh, hello, sorry." He just seemed to notice the Silence there, and spoke to the one in front of Amy. "You're in the middle of something. Just had to say though, have you seen what's on the telly? Hello, Amy, you all right? Want to watch some television?"

The Doctor set the TV on the console facing Amy and the Silent in front of her, who for some reason, despite being identical, seemed to have some level of authority. "Ah, now, stay where you are." He held out a hand as the Silent stepped forward. "Look at me, I'm confident. You want to watch that, me, when I'm confident. Oh, this is my friend, the Poet. Great hat, quick as a whip, has a sonic screwdriver and, like me, could probably scare you all off single-handedly."

The Poet waved her sonic like a weapon as she stepped over to the Doctor. "Well, I don't like to brag, but yeah, probably."

"I know you're all team players and everything, but she'll definitely clear out at least a planet full of you." The Doctor went on.

"Oh, at least two." The Poet flipped the sonic around and caught it.

"Two planets, really?"

"Three for you, love."

"Stop it."

"Make me."

"Yeah, well, maybe I will."

"Is this really important, flirting?" Amy snapped, leaning out a little so the Time Lords could see her. "I feel like I should be higher on the list right now."

"Yes, right, sorry." The Doctor got back on track. "As I was saying, my fellow Time Lord here will help me clear out Earth of you lot and any planets besides. So maybe you should get an escape pod ready, or set a finish line." The Doctor began to walk around the console. "Or maybe you could just listen a minute, because all I really want to do is accept your total surrender, and then I'll let you go in peace. You've been interfering in human history for thousands of years. People have suffered and died. But what's the point in two hearts, if you can't be a bit forgiving now and then."

He walked around full circle and came back to stare at the leader's distorted face, as though waiting for an answer. "Ooh! The Silence. You guys take that seriously, don't you? OK, you got me, I'm lying. I'm not really going to let you go that easily. Nice thought, but it's not Christmas. First," He turned on the TV to show the lunar lander. "You tell me about the girl. Who is she? Why is she important? What's she for? Guys, sorry. But you're way out of time. Now, come on, a bit of history for you. Aren't you proud, because you helped?" He extended the comically long antennae. "Do you know how many people are watching this live on the telly? Half a billion, and that's nothing, because the human race will spread out among the stars, you just watch them fly. Billions and billions of them, for billions and billions of years. And every single one of them, at some point in their lives, will look back at this man, taking that very first step, and they will never, ever forget it."

They stopped and watched for a moment, just before Lance Arm/strong stepped foot on the moon for the first time. The Doctor seemed to remember something. "Oh." He pulled a mobile from his pocket. "But they'll forget this bit. Ready?"

"_It's one small step for man . . ._" Armstrong began to say, but was cut off by a video clip of the injured Silent in the Doctor's old prison cell with Canton.

"You should kill us all on sight." It hissed, and continued repeated on a loop for a minute or two.

"You've given the order for your own execution," The Doctor said. "And the whole planet just heard you."

The TV went back to the broadcast of the landing. _"One giant leap for mankind._"

"And one whacking kick up the backside for the Silence!" The Doctor cried triumphantly, throwing up an arm. The lead Silent tilted its head as it realised what had happened, making that angry, quiet clicking. "You raised an army against yourself, and for a thousand generations, you're going to be ordering them to destroy you every day. How fast can you run? Because today is the day the human race throw you off their planet." The Silent began to advance on the Doctor, who took a step back. "I think the word you're looking for is 'Oops!' Run! Guys, I mean us! Run!"

The Silence in the room opened fire, mouths now stretched open as electricity shot around the room. River began shooting back, killing several in the first few seconds. The Doctor and Poet began waving their sonics, holding back the Silence and blasting some of the tech to distract them. Alistair made a run for the TARDIS and accidentally kicked the Poet, who was diving for cover from sparks and a bolt of lightning. And yet, the Silence still seemed to be building their power up to full.

"Gah! Sorry!" Alistair went to help the Poet up but she had already rolled away, her sonic whirring loudly as she held off a Silent.

"Don't worry about it!"

"Are you okay!"

"Yeah!" The Poet swung a leg up to kick a Silent in the gut. "I needed to get some anger out somehow!" She slammed the end of her sonic into the hunched Silent's soft head and it crumpled.

"Oh my _god_, did you just _kill something_?" Alistair cried as he ran to the TARDIS.

"Quite possibly!" They both made a break for the police box, ducking under River as she spun, shooting the Silence as she went. They hurried into the TARDIS, Alistair sitting down with a gasp of relief and the Poet running up to the console. A few moments later, River joined them by the console, pushing the Doctor out of the way to help fly.

"You can let me fly it!" He protested loudly.

"Or we can go where we're supposed to." River countered smoothly.

"_Thank _you!" The Poet leaned around the console to point and nod at River. "Always off track, this one."

"Hey!" The Doctor looked over at her.

"Oh, you know I'm only teasing. Ouch." The Poet gingerly touched her torso, grimacing. "Donovan!"

"Oh, god, did I hurt you?" The ginger looked up, panicked.

"I'm fairly certain you broke something." She tested out each of her ribs, and gritted her teeth as she touched one just below her left heart. "Ooh, ow, yeah, that's broken. Excuse me a moment, Doctor." She walked down to her plump little wardrobe TARDIS, sitting off to the side. Alistair following anxiously behind, she hobbled inside, walked down a short flight of steps and turned a few corners before coming to a sickbay, clean and white and sterile.

"Are you okay? What happened? Can I help? Can't you heal yourself? What are you doing?" Alistair clenched and unclenched his hands, clearly worried sick, which touched the Poet.

"I'm fine, you broke two of my ribs, no, only around my regeneration cycle, and right now I'm . . ." The Poet reached into a cabinet and looked through a few boxes before reaching into one and taking out a syringe filled with tinted green liquid. "Going to heal my ribs." She took off the plastic cap and stuck the needle into her arm, quickly injecting the serum into her blood. The syringe clattered to the white countertop as the Poet convulsed slightly, grinding her teeth together and gripping the edge of the counter until her knuckles threatened to break skin.

After a few minutes of grimacing and sweating, she sighed and relaxed. "Oh, that's much better." She patted her middle. "All good now." Smiling, she strode happily out of the sickbay and back through her console room.

"So, that's it? You just stick that in you and you're all better?" Alistair asked incredulously as they stepped back into the Doctor's TARDIS.

"Well, yes, but you can only take so much of it at a time. Not good for the immune system, you see. I won't be able to have any more for another year or two." The Poet left her door open. "It's very handy, that stuff, but a tad dangerous. And very painful to take, as well."

The TARDIS came to a stop, and they walked to the door, opening it to once again see the Oval Office, in daytime now. Canton and Nixon were both there, along with a handful of suited agents. The Doctor walked out to shake hands with Nixon.

"So we're safe again?" The President asked him, smiling.

"Safe? No, of course you're not safe. There's a billion other things out there, waiting to burn your whole world. But if you want to pretend you're safe, just so you can sleep at night, OK, you're safe. But you're not really." The Doctor turned from the now confused Nixon to Canton. "Canton. Till the next one, eh?" They shook hands.

"Looking forward to it." Canton nodded, smiling widely.

The Doctor turned back to Nixon. "Canton just wants to get married. Hell of a reason to kick him out of the FBI."

"I'm sure something can be arranged." Nixon agreed.

"I'm counting on you." The Doctor turned back to the TARDIS.

"Er, Doctor . . ." Nixon said uncertainly. "Canton here tells me you and . . ." He nodded to the Poet. "Your gal, are . . . from the future. Hardly seems possible, but I was wondering . . ."

"Should warn you, I don't answer a lot of questions."

"But I'm a President at the beginning of his time. Dare I ask? Will I be remembered?"

The Doctor smirked a little. "Oh, Dickie. Tricky Dickie. They're never going to forget you." He turned back to the TARDIS. "Say hi to David Frost for me."

The next stop was Stormcage Prison, to drop River back off to continue serving time. The Doctor went out to see her off, leaving the other four inside to burn some time. The Poet tapped her foot and checked her watch. She was itching to go, and decided that she was going to go off with Alistair for an adventure or two themselves; however, she didn't want to leave without saying goodbye to the Doctor.

He hustled in the door a minute later, looking a bit flustered and slightly pink in the face. He walked quickly up to the console and started to pilot it away. "Doctor?" The Poet leaned over. "I'm off with Alistair for a bit, I'll be back soon."

"Oh, you leaving?" He asked, turning. "We were about to go on some adventures, you know, all around the universe and stuff."

"And I know we have the best adventures, but I think Alistair deserves a day off after everything with the Silence." The Poet smiled at him. "I'll be back before you can say ''The brakes are still on'." She turned and hopped down to her TARDIS, jumping into the fluffy coats. "Come on, Alistair!"

-o-

Alistair watched the Poet warily until she disappeared into her TARDIS, and then jogged up to the Doctor, giving his shoulder a little push to get his attention. "Oi, you Time Lord. Doctor." He said sternly.

"Ow, yes, what?" The Doctor turned, now a bit grumpy from the small shove.

"What are your intentions with the Poet?" Alistair nodded to the wardrobe.

"What do you mean, 'my intentions'? They're perfectly honourable, if that's what you mean."

"I hope they are, for your sake."

"Donovan!" The Poet yelled from the TARDIS, her voice distant.

"Just a moment, Poet!" Alistair called, and turned back to the Doctor. "I hope you know that she . . . er . . ." He stopped, not sure if that was something he was at liberty to say. The Doctor gave him a look that very clearly said, "_Go on."_ Alistair sighed, biting his tongue nervously. Oh, the Poet would absolutely _murder _him for this . . . "I hope you know that the Poet loves you, okay? Oh, I'm so dead."

The Doctor couldn't have been more surprised if he'd been slapped, but frankly, Alistair figured he should have seen this coming after Amy's wedding. "She—wait, what? Really?"

"Yes, really!" Alistair hissed, waving his arms in a 'keep it down' kind of motion. "She's going to be so mad, but she basically admitted it to me earlier at the warehouse. She really cares for you, okay? She seems very confused about it. But she's all edgy about getting in the way of whatever weird thing you have going with River, and, Doctor," Here Alistair paused to look seriously at the Time Lord. "I don't want her hurt, and I don't care about how many planets you've been to, or how old you are: if you hurt the Poet, I am going to hurt you back. Got it?"

The Doctor nodded, seeming to be taking in this information. "Yes. Trust me, Alistair, I have no intentions of being cruel."

"_Alistair Mackenzie Donovan!_" The Poet yelled, louder now. Alistair winced at his full name being used; he was doomed.

"You guys are brilliant friends. Just . . . think about it, okay?" He nodded to the Doctor and hurried to the wardrobe. "Coming, Poet! And, um, don't be mad, but . . ." 


	22. Upwards and Onwards

_**RomanaGallifrey and Time Lady, I can't PM you if you don't login! D: But I'll answer your questions, RomanaGallifrey: Yes, quite possibly, right now, and usually every three days but sometimes longer or shorter.**_

_Thank you everyone for the kind, supporting reviews! Have you guessed who our mystery woman is yet? No worries if you haven't; all shall be revealed in time…by which I mean this chapter…DON'T KILL ME FOR ALL THIS STUFF THAT HAPPENS HERE! It's a bit of a one-shot chapter, beginning middle and end all right here._

_I don't know if this is too soon into the story, but…oh, just read and give me your opinion, it's two 'o'clock and I'm tired and crazy and I don't know WHAT I'll do!_

_W'P_

"_Guilt for being rich, and guilt thinking that perhaps love and peace isn't enough and you have to go and get shot or something." -John Lennon_

-o-

"Alistair . . . why don't you go over that one more time for me." The Poet said dangerously, sitting with a cup and saucer. "You told him _what?" _

Alistair swallowed. "I told him that you basically admitted to me that you loved him and you were confused about it and not to hurt you or I would hurt him and to think about it because you guys are great together." He said timidly.

The Poet sighed and leaned back in her chair. They were sitting in the upstairs parlour, drinking tea and eating biscuits. The Poet took a sip of her tea and set it back in its saucer with a light clink. "Alistair, you should understand how hurt I am by your little betrayal."

"I'm sorry, Poet, but you were never going to do anything about it. I just . . . figured I should be the whisper in the Doctor's ear, is all." Alistair hung his head.

"Alistair, I confided in you." The Poet explained softly. "I told you something quite personal and you betrayed my trust."

"I know, I know it was wrong. I'm so sorry, Poet." Alistair looked up at her. "Are you going to leave me in ancient Babylon?"

There was a pause, and then the Poet laughed lightly and drank a bit more tea. "No, my friend, I won't be leaving you just yet. Although, I hope you realise you are in my eternal servitude for the rest of your mortal life." She grinned at Alistair's groan. "Also, there's something I need to investigate. Can you guess what it is?"

"Hm . . . oh, is it that woman you saw on telly back in 1969?"

"Precisely." The Poet stood up, walking quickly down the stairs to the console, talking as she went and buttoning her jacket. "I know who she is a bit too well, you see, and I want to know why she was there, or better yet, how she got caught on camera."

"Why? Who is she?" Alistair spoke over the banister as he walked down to join her.

"Well, she's . . ." The Poet bit her lip, clearly torn. "Er, well, she's . . . I can't exactly go running after her, you see, because that really wouldn't—"

Her explanation was interrupted by a knocking on the door. The pair snapped to attention, staring at the door. They waited a few seconds, in nervous silence. They both jumped slightly at another bout of more insistent knocking.

"Poet." Alistair breathed. "Where are we?"

"Alistair." The Poet whispered back, taking out her sonic and walking warily to the door. "That's an excellent question."

She carefully stepped up to the door and opened it a crack. A warm breeze tickled her nose, so she opened it more fully to see a short, petite woman standing before her, in a complete mess. Dark brown hair hung in heavy curls down her back, held sloppily up. She was dressed in modern clothing, and had lines of black makeup running down her cheeks. Her eyes were wide in terror, and she seemed incredibly relieved to see the Poet.

"Oh, thank god someone's home!" She sobbed. "Please, please, can you help me?"

"Yes, what seems to be the problem?" The Poet checked the outside of the door quick and saw polished wood.

"I-it's my dad, he got caught by t-those things!" She wept, pointing desperately down the hill that the TARDIS was perched on. The Poet peered down, watching the grass ripple in a breeze. There was a small estate in lovely condition at the bottom. A large forest stretched for kilometres on the right, as far as the eye could see.

"What things? What's happened to him?" The Poet asked, opening the door further as Alistair came up behind her to block some view of the inside.

"My god, are you thick?! The things in the trees! Now come on!" She grabbed the Poet's arm with surprising strength and began pulling her down the hill. Not knowing really what to do, she let herself get dragged down the hill to the estate.

"Yes, what seems to be the problem with these creatures?" She asked along the way. "What's your name?"

"Marie Stantson." Marie seemed to have calmed down somewhat, but rather than being genuinely calm, she looked more like she was in shock. "You'll see what those things do, oh, yes. You'll see."

She hiccupped and broke down sobbing again, stopped walking and just hunching over, unmoving. The Poet stood there awkwardly for a moment. She caught Alistair's eye and looked between him and the weeping Marie. It clicked, and he shook his head. The Poet gave him the _you-were-an-arse-not-twenty-minutes-ago-you-are-in-my-debt-until-you-die _look, and he sighed. Alistair walked forward and hesitantly picked up Marie. She clutched his shirt and kept crying as they continued sliding down the hill.

When they reached the house, the door was already open. The Poet stepped inside, looking around. "Hello? Anyone home?"

A young man stepped out of a room to the left, staring at them. He was wearing just a hoodie with jeans and trainers, despite the sophisticated style around them, and had dark hair cut short. "Good god. She found help. Come on, then, come on. You should see, then." He beckoned them over, and they followed him to what looked like a parlour.

Alistair made a noise and stepped back. A curtain had been laid over what was clearly a human body. The Poet took a short, bracing breath through her nose and stepped forward to shake hands with the man, who could not be more than perhaps seventeen. "Hello, I'm the Poet, here to help. What happened here?"

"What's your name?" He asked. "The Poet?" At her nod, he shrugged and shook her hand. "As long as you can help, I couldn't give a rat's arse. I'm Connor Stantson; that's Marie, my older sister. And that's . . ." He nodded stiffly to the body and looked away. "That's my dad, Robert Stantson."

"Where's your mother?"

"She died when we were young."

"I see. Okay, Connor, here's what we should do." The Poet took out her sonic and tapped it against her thigh. "My friend Alistair is going to take Marie to somewhere and help her calm down. Would you mind staying here and explaining a few things?"

"Ah, no, go ahead." He looked back at Alistair. "The sitting room's across the hall, just get her something strong to drink and she'll be right as rain for the time being." Alistair nodded, shot the Poet a look, and took Marie away.

"Connor, your sister mentioned something about 'things in the trees'. You think you can elaborate? You seem rather learned for your age." The Poet walked to the body and knelt, Connor crouching opposite.

"Well, growing up in wealth, education is pretty important to my parents. About those tree things . . . it's the strangest thing. You'll never believe what's been happening; Marie is convinced that it's those things that did this to Father, but I don't want to jump to conclusions. Are you a mortician?"

"Mortician, doctor, forensic analyst, cheese judge, you name it. Licensed in them all somewhere or other. And I don't care how strange it is, I've seen it all. Shoot." The Poet rested an arm on her knee and listened.

Connor shook his head. "No one else believes us."

"Try me." Something in the Poet's face must have convinced him, because Connor gave in.

"Fine, fine. You'll call me mad, but this is it. Every night for the past couple weeks, we keep hearing this . . . clicking, from the forest. At first we thought it was just birds or cicadas or some such, but then things got creepy. Our TVs started acting up, switching on and off. The radio would change channels, records would skip, and even my iPod would go on the fritz. This stuff only happened when those . . . whatever-they-are's are clicking away. It's worrying. And now this."

"May I?" The Poet pinched the edge of the curtain.

"By all means."

The Poet peeled back the curtain, and immediately looked to the door to make sure neither Alistair nor Marie were there. She had seen corpses before; she was not sure Alistair had, and in the state Marie was in, well, things could get ugly. The body was of a man in about his late 50's, balding, with hair that matched his childrens' but for white patches. But that was almost the only thing distinguishable. His entire upper body, and, the Poet suspected, the rest of him, was riddled with large holes about an inch across. They were through his eyes and mouth, as well, making for a positively gruesome scene. The Poet scanned the body with her sonic and glanced at the results. After another moment of examining the body, she pulled the curtain back over.

"How do you think this happened?" The Poet asked quietly, taking off her hat to show respect.

Connor shrugged. "I really don't know. I don't wanna believe Marie because she's been paranoid for weeks, but, I really don't know what else could have done this. We just found him."

"Right . . ." The Poet thought for a moment, and stood. "Well, there's clearly only one way to deal with this." She walked out of the room and across the hall, her shoes making loud tapping noises on the polished tile. "Alistair, would you like to go for a hike?"

-o-

"Oh, this is such a bad idea." Alistair whined as he and the Poet strode briskly across the large field that led to the wall of forest. It was unnervingly dark, even though it was late afternoon. The grass near the estate was cut properly, but further away it grew almost up to their waists. Alistair had it easy, following in the Poet's swath, but she had to push her way through.

"Nonsense!" She called back, waving her glowing sonic at him chastising-ly. "Besides, you were completely rude to me and you are now required to not whine about anything for the rest of your existence."

"Oh, that's not . . ." Alistair trailed off as the Poet turned and shot him a look that could burn through diamond. "Unfair at all. That is completely and totally a great deal, and this is definitely not dangerous at all as long as I'm with you!"

"Why, thank you, Donovan!" The Poet chirruped, continuing on her path through the grass, skipping now in smug victory. "What a nice, warm day, isn't it?" She tossed her arms out and spun around in a classic move, grinning. "_The hi-i-ills are ali-ive with the sound of musi-i-i-ic!"_

"Mood swing much?" Alistair muttered.

"What was that?" The Poet sang back, even though she clearly heard him.

"Er, nothing!"

"That's what I thought!" They arrived at the edge of the forest, and stopped right at the end of where the sun reached. The trees stretched out for only a few feet before they became so thick that nothing was visible but trunks. The Poet rolled up her sleeves and reached into her jacket pocket to pull out a long piece of string that she tied to her and then Alistair's wrist. "Best not to take this off. Come on, then." She led him into the forest.

The Poet waved her sonic around, letting the light show her the wood of the tightly-packed trees. She inspected the bark and sniffed it, then gave it a hesitant lick. Tasting nothing unusual, she continued on. The string tightened on her wrist as Alistair walked off. She rolled her eyes at his disobeying the rules (don't wander off), but kept her thoughts to herself.

"Hello?" She called up into the branches. There was a faint rustling, but no answer. "Are you there? Don't worry, just wanna talk!" The rustling grew slightly louder. Something scurried across her shoes, and she fell to her knees to cup her hands around it. Whatever it was went absolutely mad, running in circles around her fingers. It must have been about the size of a cockroach, but for some reason very cold and smooth.

The Poet shuddered at the unpleasant sensation, but turned and ran out of the forest nonetheless, rather fearful of the rapid little creatures. "Alistair, come on!" She tugged her string lightly, and realised with horror that it was completely slack. Holding the little thing in one hand, she scrabbled for the rest of the rope and found the end much closer than it should have been, and looked as though it had been chewed away.

"Alistair!" The Poet tore back into the forest, looking around frantically. "Alistair, where are you!"

A scream trickled faintly to her from very far off. "_Poet!_"

Torn, the Poet looked between the pitch black depths of the forest, and the lighter area where the field lay. Gnawing her cheek with indecision, she finally turned and ran back out of the forest. "Ugh! He's going to get himself killed one of these days!"

Holding her catch, she went tearing back through the grass, gasping for breath by the time she came skidding into the Stantson estate. The two siblings hurried over from the sitting room, staring at her. "Well? What did you find?" Connor asked.

"This thing." The Poet held up her clasped hands. "Which curiously enough hasn't tried to escape yet."

"Bloody lot of good that does us!" Marie shrieked. Her brother shushed her quickly.

"Yes, it does." The Poet replied, with an edge of impatience to her tone. "We know what we're facing, now. Both of you, come with me." She gestured out the door with her hands and went walking out again.

The little cold thing continued to scuttle around as they approached the TARDIS, which had disguised itself as a small, quaint cottage in prime shape. The Poet awkwardly opened the door, but turned to them before going in. "Marie, please keep your head." She informed her, opened the door and walked inside.

"What the . . ." Connor breathed, staring around as the Poet hustled over to her console. Marie squeaked but slapped a hand over her mouth. "This is just . . . remarkable!"

"Yes, I know, I've heard it all before. Love, you mind bringing down a holding case, preferably glass?" A cube of thick glass emerged from the console, and the Poet flung the bug thing into it. The glass sealed shut, trapping the thing, and detached from the console. The Poet picked it up with a bark of laughter. "Gotcha!"

"What is this place?" Marie whispered fearfully, her eyes large and scared.

"It's my TARDIS! Time machine, space machine, swimming machine and lots of other things roughly a thousand kilometres counting all rooms, maybe a bit more. Yes, it's bigger on the inside. Yes, it works. No, I'm not telling you about the future. No, we aren't going anywhere. Yes, only I can drive it. Any questions, no, good." The Poet held the glass box securely and started toward the door.

"But-but this is incredible!" Connor laughed, still staring.

"Isn't it?" The Poet grinned.

"It really is. Um, what—"

"What are you?!" Marie suddenly shrieked. "This-this isn't normal, what—what _is _this? Who are you?"

The Poet turned to face the shaking woman, who shriveled under her gaze. "I'm the Poet." She said. "I'm a Time Lord from the planet Gallifrey, I have a time machine, and if you want to _live, _you'll do everything I say because I've been around for nine hundred years, much unlike you. Any questions? No?" She leaned close. "_Good._ Now!" She stepped back, tossing the glass box up and catching it. "Let's play exterminator."

-o-

"What is it?" Connor asked, peering at the box. They were in an upstairs study, the box with the bug resting on the shiny wood of a desk. Inside, a little blob of silver shaped like a bullet scuttled around the glass, desperately trying to get out.

"It's a drone." The Poet was in the seat behind the desk, spinning back and forth. "Think worker bee, which leads me to believe there's a queen somewhere. Maybe, maybe not. Don't like queens myself, had a couple bad experiences."

"Can we find the queen?" Connor tapped the box, causing the drone to increase its pace.

"No. Not unless you want to get lost in the woods." The Poet reached into the box, which molding around her hands to allow nothing to get out. "We need to use our little friend here."

Connor watched in fascination as she grabbed the drone, pinching it tightly. "Okay, you." She demanded, getting close to the box. "Do you have a camera for me?" It paused, not moving, before a little camera eye opened on the side facing her. "Excellent. Let's see that projecting screen!" Another pause, and it presented a little hologram of a terrified Alistair, who looked to the screen with obvious relief.

"Oh, Poet!" He cried. "Oh, thank god! I thought I was a dead man!"

"Not quite yet. Alistair, tell me, what's going on on your end?"

He looked around. "There's a lots of silver things everywhere . . . I'm in some kind of glade, o-or clearing. These things are all moving as one, Poet, like a flock of birds. They just keep circling the clearing, there's no way I can get out!"

"Okay, okay, Alistair, just remain calm, I'm coming to get you. Just let me figure out a plan, okay? You'll be back by tomorrow."

"How comforting."

"I know it is. Hang in there."

"Hanging."

The drone shut off the hologram, and the Poet looked at the glass. "Listen, you. We both have hostages. I'll get you back to your lot if you agreed to give me back my friend." It did nothing, but the camera eye disappeared. The little drone clattered to the bottom of the box.

"So, what do we do?" Connor asked. The Poet stood and began pacing, forming a plan.

She snapped, the sound cracking in the room. "You said they only attack at night?"

"As far as we can tell."

"Then this is what we do. We wait until night falls; turn on everything powered by electricity that you can, get them agitated. Most of them will come here, you lot hide in the TARDIS, safest place on this planet right now. I'll run and get Alistair, we dash out, then use a burst of electricity directed through the lightning rod on the roof to zap the lot of them using this one," She tapped the box. "As a sort of connection. Problem solved!"

"That . . . might just be mad enough to work." Connor considered. "But, um, couple questions; first, what are these things?"

"My theory about the drone was wrong." The Poet stopped and watched the silver oval. "We have a piece of the hivemind. Have you ever watched Star Trek?"

"No."

"Okay, no use there. Imagine having your brain split into a million tiny pieces and you can control all of those tiny pieces because really, they're still all your brain. Got it?"

"Yeah, so, we have a piece of brain?"

"Good, you're keeping up. Remind me to come back for a visit. Yes, this is part of the brain, so to speak, so he's connected to the rest via telekinesis and electric currents."

"Interesting. Second question, where are they from? Are they alien?"

"That's two. Yes to the second. To the first, I'm not sure. I would suspect somewhere in the Telek star system, quite far from Earth. Wonder how they got here."

"Great, um, next question, what do they want with us?"

"Oh, I'll find out how they got here once I get to Alistair, I'm sure there's a ship of some sort back there that I am just _dying _to see, but as for what they want," The Poet grabbed the box and started walking down the stairs, back to the main lobby. "This place is a electronic hotspot; ship crash lands in the middle of nowhere, nothing to eat and no fuel, and then boom! They find this place, an absolute feast. Your father must have found this out to some degree, he got in the way, and . . . well."

"If they killed Father and he didn't know everything," Connor asked, following her down the main stairs to the entrance hall and then to the sitting room. Marie was with them, but was being almost suspiciously quiet and tagging along closely behind her younger brother. "What will happen to us since we know everything?"

"Oh, I suspect they'll try to kill us, too. Don't want us shutting down the electrics, now, do they? We won't disappoint them, though. We'll give them as much power and light as they want." The Poet waited until they were all in the sitting room. "This is the plan, you two. We're going to wait until night, and the second there's no sun, I want you to turn on every light in this house, every television, every radio and music player, whatever. Light the candles if you can. Then, I need you to run your little humans bums up to my TARDIS and lock the door." The Poet made a running motion with two fingers.

"What about you?" Marie asked quietly. "Won't they get you if we lock you out?"

"Don't worry about me, I've got the key." The Poet wiggled her sonic. "For now, do what you want. I have to rewire some things on the roof. Stay in the house, be careful, don't watch telly until about," She checked her watch. "Forty-five minutes from now." She smiled and turned away.

"Poet, wait." Connor stood, and the Poet swiveled back around. "What about our father?"

She sighed. "I know it's a terrible time for you two. But once we get this solved, you can have a proper funeral for him. I promise."

It took a little bit, wandering around the massive house before finally finding the entrance to the attic. The stairs unfolded from the ceiling at the pull of a little rope, and the Poet unsteadily ascended. It was dark and dusty inside. A ray of red sun, setting now, shone through the blinds, illuminating motes of dust suspended in air.

Boxes filled with the normal attic stuff sat around, some filled with pictures clouded over or old Christmas gifts, long forgotten. A floorboard creaked until the Poet's reverent foot; she had always respected old memories, like one would respect a grave at a cemetery. Nostalgia was a powerful thing, and memories like these were like fossils suspended in amber. Pictures and old gifts and music boxes that played tiny tunes. No one ever really had a use for them; but it was the longing to return there, that _will_ to go back to a time that was, like the dust in the air, suspended in golden light. Never moving, not changing in the slightest . . . until someone comes along and stirs things up.

The Poet looked around above, tearing her eyes from the boxes and bags to look for the entrance to the roof. She found a flat panel and pulled it open. A rush of cool air flooded the stagnant attic, a box of light shining down on the Poet, who squinted. She dragged a ladder over, using one hand, the other still tucking the metal drone under her arm. She climbed up and looked out over the surrounding nothingness. Way out in the distance, she thought she could see the tiny shadow of another house, but it was so faint it could have been a trick of the eye.

There was, as the Poet suspected, a large lightning rod on top of the house, next to a satellite dish. The Poet carefully walked over to it, balancing nervously. A shingle came loose under her toe, and slid off the roof to disappear over the edge.

Once at the rod, the Poet reached over and grabbed the satellite dish. Out of her jacket she pulled a coiled bundle of wires—just in case—and began to work. She tied the satellite to the rod and melded the "glass" box to the base, so the very end went straight through. She reached in, running the wire around the metal and into the box. She pinched the drone and unwound the end of the cable so the thin copper wires were exposed. With a final little pinching and pulling, she tied the drone securely to her power-outage-causer and sat back, dusting her hands off with satisfaction.

Until, at least, she got roughly shoved off the roof.

The Poet cried out and scrabbled for a hold, finally grabbing a shingle that was hooked a bit tighter. She looked up, gasping, at the roof to see a glaring Marie. "Marie! What are you doing?"

"Saving what little of my family I have left!" Marie screeched back, picking up a loose shingle.

"That's what I'm trying to do!" The Poet slipped, falling down a few more feet before finding another handhold.

"You're just an alien! A freak and you'll just kill us both!" Marie hurled the shingle at the Poet, but was luckily a very bad shot and missed by a good ways.

"I'm trying to help you, Marie! I can't do that if you _kill me!"_ The Poet started inching cautiously up. "Please, I have someone at risk here, too!"

"We can help him more!" Marie threw another shingle, and it shattered by the Poet ear. A piece of ceramic slashed her cheek, and blood began to drip onto her white shirt. "You'll doom him, and us! We don't need the help of an alien freak!"

"You're out of your mind!" The Poet roared. A gust of wind kicked up, whipping her hat away.

But she was done. She reached out and plucked the hat from the air without even looking. She scaled the rest of the roof like it was nothing, and when she reached Marie, grabbed her wrists and tied them with the spare bit of string she still had until the skin was red.

"Ow!" Marie snapped, but the Poet paid no heed. She grabbed Marie and jumped down into the attic. She swung the woman over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes and walked calmly down to the sitting room. Marie kicked and screamed, her feet making sure bruises, but she could have been kicking Styrofoam for all the good it did.

Down in the lobby, Connor was groaning and sitting up, holding his eye, which was swollen and purple. He grimaced, but stumbled to his feet upon seeing them approach. "I'm sorry, I tried to stop her, but she caught me off guard, and I—"

"It's all right, Connor." The Poet held out her free hand with a light smile. "Everything up top is ready for action; as soon as the sun sets, we'll have this all figured, and hopefully no one will be hurt."

"I can't thank you enough for helping us, Poet." Connor thanked, smiling. "I'm going to go get something for this; now I see where all those martial arts lessons went!"

The Poet nodded and set Marie down on the sofa in the sitting room. They glared at each other for a long moment. Finally, Marie jerked her head forward, spitting on the Poet's jacket. The Time Lady coolly wiped it away, nodded once, and walked out. Connor was back in the main hall, holding a steak to his eye.

"Are you okay?" The Poet asked, taking her sonic out of her jacket.

"I'll be fine." Connor waved the hand that wasn't holding meat to his face. "Is everything ready?"

"All good." The Poet checked her watch, and looked out the window. "It's time."

"Right. I'll take the right wing, meet up back here when we're done?"

"Sounds about right. Ready?" The Poet got in a position like she was going to race. "Set?" She tested the sonic out, and Conner bent so he was facing the sitting room and the Poet was facing the parlour, with the grand staircase between them. "Go!"

The Poet took off, sliding on the rug and using her sonic to light the candles on the mantle. They flared to life as she did the same to the radio, which began playing a newscaster's announcement in a fuzzy voice. There was a small television in the adjoining room, which she flicked on. It began playing the news as well, a reporter doing a piece on some mild rioting in a small town. She looked around, saw a staircase leading up to a possible bedroom, and was about to take off when she saw something that made her slip on the rug and land hard on her elbow.

"Argh!" She held the aching limb, crawling on to her knees at the TV.

The newscaster was still doing the riot report; he was talking about how one citizen had attempted to break up the fight before it could get violent. The footage switched to what looked like a home camera, of someone taping the fight. A few men were on two sides, trying to get at each other. There was a blur; the camera was moving too fast. When it focused again, there was a woman in a dark blue dress, talking to each side. Her hair was up in a bun, and she wore a 20's-esque choker necklace.

The Poet put a hand over her mouth. The woman noticed the camera. Something flashed and the tape ended. The footage changed back to the newscaster, who stated that the woman was carried off by a man who appeared to be associated with her, and there was no statement by the police.

Standing, the Poet shook her head and started off again, waving her sonic at anything and everything that would work. An iPod lying on a bed turned on, CDs began playing and lamps switched on. She ran down a hall and found the computer room. There were several monitors, gaming systems, and even a small fridge. She turned everything on, the machines humming to life.

She jogged to a halt in the main hall, panting slightly. "Oh, boy, this house is way bigger on the inside."

Connor joined her a moment later, looking a bit more out of breath. "Everything in the house is on. When do you think . . ." He stopped talking and stared, listening. At first, it was only a couple clicks. Then, a few more, not stopping and getting steadily louder. Before long, it was an absolute cacophony of clicks and clacks, surrounding the house.

"You and Marie go out with your hands up, start walking to the TARDIS. Let them have their way with the electricity. I'm going to find Alistair, and then I'm coming back here to shut everything off. Do good." The Poet smiled and patted Connor's shoulder, and they ran and fetched Marie.

The three sidled out of the house, and saw what looked at first like a river of silver. Upon closer inspection, it was millions and millions of the drones, circling at lightning speed. Connor and the Poet held their hands up, Marie between them, whimpering lightly. The drones shot inside the house, too happy to be inside, clicking away. Connor and Marie started off to the TARDIS, and the Poet ran to the forest.

There were no clicks near the forest, so she charged right in, dodging through the trees. She kept running as long as she could. "Alistair!" She cried. "_Alistair!" _

"Poet!" A voice gasped from her left. The Poet turned and slammed face-first into Alistair. "Oh, you came for me!" He hugged her tightly, grinning. "I tried to find you, but I got lost, and then I heard something and I thought it was those things . . ."

"Yes, lovely story, but let's just go so we don't get killed, hm?" The Poet grabbed his hand and bolted back, leaping over roots and slipping in dirt as they went. Once outside of the forest, she turned Alistair to the cottage. "I'll be right along, I need to do something first."

"Where are you going?" He called after her.

"Negotiations!" The Poet sprinted down to the estate, hopping over the drones and shaking them off her like pesky ants as she went. All the way to the roof, up through the attic to emerge in the deafening air of the night. She took out her sonic and pointed it at the lightning rod.

"_Attention, drones!" _She bellowed. "Please stop scuttling and _listen!_" The clicking slowed slightly, and the silver blobs began gathering on the roof. "Thank you. Now, would you be so kind as to tell me what you are?" There was no response. "_O_kay. Now, see this here?" She waved the sonic at the rod. "This here will kill you all in a few seconds and leave me completely unharmed. Now, I have a few _rules _I'd like to go over first, before I decide whether or not to commit genocide!

"Now, first order of business: lots of Shadow Proclamation!" The Poet grinned and bounced on her heels as much as one could while standing on a slanted roof. "Right off the bat, as a Time Lord I will invoke Convention 15 of the Shadow Proclamation: the cessation of hostile actions in order to parlay." She took the sonic away from the rod and looked around.

Almost like they were considering it, the drones waited a moment before melding together, forming a sleek, humanoid form. "We shall parlay, Time Lord."

"Brilliant. Now, let's get a few things straight. What are your plans for this planet? I hope they're simply to fix your ship and get out."

"Why would be do that?" The thing seemed to almost smirk. "We have run extensive tests on the surface of this planet. It is an oasis of technology for us to feed on. And once we have sucked this planet dry, we will rid it of its vermin."

"Wrong!" The Poet swung her arm up to point her sonic at the lightning rod. "Article 57 of the Shadow Proclamation. Have the peoples of this planet broken any laws of your population?"

The being took pause. "No." It finally admitted.

"Good that we've gotten that sorted." The Poet glared. "This is a _fully-developed, _Level 5 planet. Now, you have two options. Either you get out, _now, _or I kill all of you. Your choice. Choose wisely."

There was a pregnant pause. The silver figure stared at her, still as a statue. The Poet held its gaze, keeping her sonic aimed right at the device that would kill them.

All at once, hell broke loose.

The thing dissolved into its drones and shot at her, making an absolute racket of clacking. Pain shot through her body, like pinpoints of agony concentrated at her. She activated the lightning rod machine at the same time, bearing out the pain. There was a great crashing around her as they all fell to the ground, dead and deactivated through her little captive, which had also shorted out.

The Poet finally fell to her knees in pain, gasping. She crawled to the attic and dropped through, the floor creaking as she laid there, a crumpled heap. After a few minutes of nothing, she slowly began to move. She had to get to the TARDIS. She had to. She couldn't, not here, not here. Pain was all she felt; it _was _her. It radiated from her, burnt holes in the floor and made her breathe fire. Somehow, she managed to get all the way back to the main hall, leaving a trail of blood. By then, the sun had begun to rise.

The door opened, and Connor stepped in with a hand on his sister's shoulder, looking around cautiously. Alistair was close behind. He caught sight of the Poet and ran forward, helping her up. "Oh, Poet, what did you do?" He sighed.

"I killed millions." The Poet turned her head as she wept. Alistair gathered her up, and suddenly seemed to realise she was bleeding out.

There were small holes like gunshot wounds all across her body. Some went right through her middle, and some only took small crescents of flesh away, like around her neck. One of her hearts had been pierced, and was completely unmoving. Her body temperature had fallen to near absolute zero Celsius, almost fifteen degrees in an hour or two.

"Poet! We need to get you back to the TARDIS." Alistair quickly picked her up, speaking to Connor as he walked quickly out. "You're welcome."

The Poet felt herself jolting up and down, and finally allowed herself to begin to heal. It felt like ambrosia. Gold light flowed from her hands and face, little trickles leaking from the wounds as well. A door opened and closed, and she was set on a chill floor.

"Come on, Poet! Regenerate!" Alistair urged her, his tone begging. "Please, just regenerate!"

The Poet smiled weakly and looked at him, her eyes shining gold rings now. "Step back." She breathed, and her head dropped back as a rocket of gold shot from her body. Alistair went toppling away, shielding his eyes. The Poet screamed, her body repairing itself. Her hair stretched out and lightened slightly, her face shape changed. The TARDIS shook and sparked with the force of the heal, itself changing somewhat in form. It took only several moments, and then the Poet breathed in sharply, looking around.

"Where am I? My TARDIS? Good, good!" She staggered to her feet, holding the console for support. "Hands, legs, feet, good. Great! Ooh." She touched her throat. "New voice. New teeth. Ehh, feels odd every time. I think I'm a bit taller, ah, well, onwards and upwards. Oh, no!" She cried, grasping the mirror in panic. "Donovan! I'm damaged goods!"

"Why?" Alistair brushed himself off and looked around the slightly different TARDIS. Things had taken on a bit more of the "classy" look that the parlour upstairs had. A polished staircase led down to the tiled floor. The console even looked a bit more polished up, a bit more wood now.

"Look at me, what happened?" The Poet turned to look at him with disappointment. Alistair peered at her for a moment before realising she was talking about her eyes. One was blue, the other brown.

"You've got heterochromia." He answered, not worried in the slightest. "Just unusual pigmentation, nothing to lose your cool over."

"I don't like it." The Poet huffed at the mirror. She concentrated hard for a moment, staring at herself. A second or two passed, and she gave up. "Oh, I can't change it." She sighed.

"Hey, why do you look kinda familiar?" Alistair rubbed his chin, frowning. "I swear I've seen you like this before somewhere."

"Oh, you have." The Poet took off her jacket and hung it on the coat rack by the door.

"Where, though?"

The Time Lady reached into her pocket and pulled out a clip, winding her new, dark brown hair up into a bun and pinning it there with a grin. "I was on TV in 1969."


	23. Face to Face

_Oh my god, Time Lady, I didn't even think of that….I feel silly now…also it's a tad too late to edit anything in like the second chapter, so I guess we can just say that River chose not to let on that she knew how the Poet and Doctor turned out…_

_W'P_

""_If I told you things I did before, told you how I used to be/Would you go along with someone like me?/If you knew my story word for word, had all of my history/Would you go along with someone like me?"/"I did before and had my share/it didn't lead nowhere/I would go along with someone like you."" –Peter Bjorn and John, "Young Folks", 2006_

_-o-_

"Much better." The Poet dusted herself off after changing into the clothes she supposed she was logically supposed to wear now, having seen her future self—dress, necklace, hair in a bun. She didn't know what shoes to wear and found a pair of old black shoes with the word "Converse" written on the sides. She winced and scratched the nape of her neck. "You all right, Donovan?"

"Yeah." Alistair replied unsteadily from the mostly unchanged parlour, drinking a mug of coffee. "That's never going to stop being weird. So, how do you feel? And what are you _wearing?_"

"Don't really know yet." The Poet picked up a hand mirror and frowned at her eyes, which she was still cross about. "Personality takes a little longer. Who knows? Friendly, funny, anxious, angry. Not quite there yet. So far I feel normal. And it's all mismatch now, I think. Fun, fun."

"That's good, I guess. Any cravings?"

"None so far. Maybe it was a one-time thing." The Poet sniffed. "Are you drinking coffee?"

"Yeah, needed a pick-me-up after all that . . ." Alistair trailed off with a huff as the Poet grabbed the mug from his hands and drank the entire scalding thing without flinching. "Kidnapping."

"Mm, okay, that's new." The Poet set the mug aside. "Didn't like coffee last time." She made a face and clutched her chest with a light gasp. "Oof."

"You okay?" Alistair asked concernedly.

"Uhf . . . Yeah, just a little heart attack." She waited it out a few moments and sighed. "Pretty common, body's getting used to itself. Hearts disagreeing. Didn't happen last time, but the time before that it did." She let out a breath, which glittered faintly gold, and started down the somewhat classier steps to the somewhat classier console. "Let's go back to the Doctor, I didn't die as much."

"You aren't mad about, you know." Alistair winced awkwardly. "Me telling him all that stuff?"

"Oh, I'm still pretty angry." The Poet answered nonchalantly, typing a few things in. "Not right now, of course. Could never bring myself to be angry after regenerating. It's too much fun!" She grinned and pulled the new launch lever. "And don't forget, you're here forever!"

"Of course I am." Alistair rolled his eyes and sat gingerly in one of the new, comfy chairs by the console. The new tower had a corkscrew of glass beads that spun for eternity while the TARDIS worked. The stairs by the door had changed to a dark wood staircase that was considerably higher now.

"Hm, I think personality's started changing now." The Poet observed, inspecting her hands like it would be written there. "I feel kinda . . . happy." She grinned. "Like, really happy!" She giggled loudly and clapped a hand over her mouth. "That was odd." She breathed, and smiled. "Still happy, a bit energetic. Also slightly . . . something else. Flirty? Yes, that's it."

"Well, save it for the Doctor. I'm spoken for." Alistair smirked.

"I know that! I married you and Jonathan!"

"Poet, that was the joke."

"It wasn't very good. And you're, you know, homosexual, so. Well, technically I wouldn't count because I could always be male at some point, haven't yet, though."

Alistair waved his hands. "Don't even put that image in my head. Seriously, ugh, no."

The Poet laughed and pulled him up out of the chair, veritably prancing to the door and bounding out with a bark of laughter. "Hello, anyone in?"

The Doctor poked around the console. "Er, yes! Hello, Poet, just discussing my encounter with—oh, look at you!" He grinned and pointed. "Different!"

Rory looked around the console tower. "Yeah, different. A lot different."

"Yeah, had a bit of a scrape with some life forms from the Telek star system. Got me pretty good, and now here I am, shiny new." The Poet spun in a circle and bowed dramatically. Alistair caught the Doctor's look over her back. He pointed two fingers to his eyes, and jabbed them at the Doctor as the Poet straightened up happily.

"Well, as I was saying," The Doctor turned to Rory, who was sitting by the console. Amy came walking down the stairs from above. "Then we discovered it wasn't the robot king after all. Fortunately, I was able to re-attach the head." The Doctor finished his story with a slightly smug bounce in his step, smiling proudly.

"Do you really believe all this?" Rory asked incredulously to Amy.

"I was there." She answered shortly, not even glancing his way or seeming to notice the Poet's change. Rory stood and hurried over to talk to her, leaving the Poet and Doctor by the console. Alistair, sensing an exit cue, sidled away to the Poet's TARDIS.

A few red lights on a panel of the console began flashing, which instantly irritated the Doctor, who ran over to them. "Oh, it's warning lights. I'm getting rid of those, they never stop!" He smacked the lights viciously for a moment before the Poet brushed his hand away with a tsk-ing sound.

"Hitting it is going to do nothing. And you have warning lights for a _reason_." She chided softly, pressing a button with her thumb.

"But they're always going off." The Doctor replied, his tone humorously close to a whine. "Besides, it's my TARDIS. I can take away the flashy warning lights if I want to!"

"Whatever you say. Now, tell me honestly." She pressed her palms to her cheeks. "How do I look?"

"Lovely as ever." The Doctor answered honestly.

"But my _eyes_." The Poet lamented, rubbing her sockets. "They've been damaged. It never happened before. Maybe it was all the quote unquote "gunshot" wounds I got this time. Either way, it looks just terrible, and I couldn't change it."

"Oh, I think it looks great, unique, maybe a bit disorienting but that's beside the point." He responded, observing her new face.

"Always the gentleman." The Poet sighed, leaning against the console. She winked at the Doctor, smirking slightly.

Before the Doctor could retort, there was a knocking at the door. Amy and Rory stepped up from below, and the four turned curiously to the door. "What was that?" Amy asked.

"The door. It knocked." The Doctor answered, slowly walking over to the little exit.

"Right." Rory said disbelievingly. "We are in deep space."

"Very, very deep." The Doctor said over his shoulder as he reached the door. Cautiously, he opened the door a crack. When he saw what was on the other side, he opened both doors all the way. "Oh, come here. Come here, you scrumptious little beauties!"

Two little white cubes shot into the room, zooming around. They were each only about the size of an orange, small enough to fit in the hand. They were brightly illuminated with white light from inside. The Poet grinned wildly at the sight of them, one flying toward the Doctor to smack him in the chest and knock him over. The Poet hopped up and grabbed hers in two hands, clasping the glowing glass securely and landing on her bum, though continued smiling hugely from the floor.

Alistair peeked out of the Poet's wardrobe, a reddish eyebrow raised. "The hell is going on out here?"

"We've got mail!" The Doctor cried happily, standing up to hurry to the console. He helped the Poet up on the way as she clung with her other hand to the box. "Time Lord emergency messaging system. In an emergency we wrap up thoughts in psychic containers and send them through time and space. Anyway, there're at least two more Time Lords out there, and they're good ones!"

"Oh, thanks." The Poet replied sarcastically. She turned her box over to see an etching of a key in the side. "Ooh, look." She pointed out to Alistair, who took the box to look. "I know the Time Lord who sent this. The Thief, he had a sonic screwdriver that was personalised to look like a skeleton key. It lived up to its name, too. Worked on wood."

"So, you knew the guy who sent this?" Alistair asked, looking intently at the box.

"Oh, yeah." The Poet smirked, helping the Doctor pilot the TARDIS. "It should be nice to see him again. He fancied me."

"I thought you said there were no more Time Lords." Rory said to them both as the time machine took off.

"There are no Time Lords left in the universe, but the universe isn't where we're going!" The Doctor exclaimed and tossed his cube to Amy. Instead of a skeleton key was the symbol of a thin snake curled into a circle, eating its own tail. "See that snake? Mark of the Corsair. Fantastic bloke. He had that snake as a tattoo in every regeneration. Didn't feel like himself without it. Or herself, a couple of times. Ooh, she was a bad girl!" A fountain of sparks showered down, causing the humans to shriek and clutch to the rails. The Poet began running to her TARDIS, mind racing. The way their TARDISs were oriented, there was no way they would make it.

"I'll see you lot on the other side!" She called back, almost throwing Alistair inside and giving the Doctor a wave. He waved back and nodded as the doors to the wardrobe closed, and the Poet set to work, running fast as she could to make up for lost time.

"Poet, where are we going?!" Alistair cried, sitting down and clutching the bottom of the seat in terror. The machine rumbled, screeching and shaking as sparks burst from the console.

"We're leaving the universe!" She laughed.

"How is that _possible_?" Alistair yelled over the racket, flinching away before his clothes could start on fire.

"That's a question I don't have time to get into!" The Poet ripped at several levers, even reaching into a panel to twist some wires together. "I need to burn rooms away for the ol' boy to get some elbow room! Good-bye track, good-bye football field, good_bye,_ Movie Theatre Four!"

"Aw!" Alistair whined at the last one, but his momentary dropping of guard was punished as he was thrown to the floor in another wild shudder. The Poet whooped as the TARDIS went spiraling through the exit to the universe. The time machine crashed and jerked around some more before coming to a skidding stop. The two occupants gasped for breath, one smiling and one not.

"Okay." Alistair breathed fearfully. "Where are we?"

"We, dear Alistair," The Poet answered reverently, looking around the TARDIS. "Have left the universe. I'll tell you now, I have never been outside the universe before. Ooh, this is new."

"This entire situation makes no sense." Alistair said, grabbing his hair and shaking his head. "Since this place exists, wouldn't this still count as the universe . . .?" He trailed off as the lights in the TARDIS began to flicker. "Er, what's happening?"

"Not sure." The Poet slapped a few buttons. "Come on, love, what's wrong, what's happening?" She leaned down to press an ear to the console. "Really? I mean, really?" She listened intently for another moment. "Seems a bit risky. Are you sure? Well . . . all right, then."

"What, what is it?" Alistair asked, and was answered by being tugged to the door.

"Sorry, Donovan, but we can't really be in here right now." The Poet sighed. "My TARDIS has decided on his own that there is an outside force that's going to drain his power, and since it's not fully aware of my TARDIS' presence, probably because the Doctor is already here, my TARDIS is going to do something he hasn't done in two hundred years to keep himself safe."

The pair stepped out into what looked like a massive junkyard. Piles of trash and what looked like wrecked spaceships were clustered in high concentration as far as the eye could see. Smoke roiled up in reeking clouds of fumes that made her eyes water. Towering above them was a starship, crashed helm-first and so huge that only four rear thrusters were visible. Though the earth smoked, everything around had a distinctly old feel to it, as most everything seemed to be molding or covered in feet-deep layers of wet dust.

"So, what's your TARDIS doing?" Alistair asked as they walked from the machine, to where they could see a blue police box parked at the possible entrance of some kind of building.

"You'll see." The Poet muttered. She was going to go into somewhat more detail, but the sound of a woman yelling made them look up to the Doctor, Amy and Rory, who were now standing out in the open. At the entrance to the structure was a hunched, lumbering older woman, her clothes a patchwork of scarves and shawls and different coloured cloths. The makeup on her face was almost comical, with overly red lipstick and blush. A short, thin man was next to her. His eyes shifted nervously around, his expression equally anxious. He was wearing what looked like a scrapped-together army uniform.

"Thief! Thief! You're my thief!" A dark-haired woman in a torn, dirtied Victorian dress ran up to the Doctor in a frenzy, staring at him with wide eyes. The Doctor lurched back a little, clearly off-put by how close she had gotten in only a few seconds. "Look at you! Goodbye!" She almost shouted, and then looked briefly confused. "No, not goodbye, what's the other one?" She grabbed the Doctor's face and violently tried to kiss him.

The Doctor, understandably, pushed her away, stumbling back and wiping his mouth at the same time the man and woman pulled the mad girl off of him. "Welcome, strangers, lovely." The man greeted. His voice was low and mumbling, like he didn't like to speak. "Sorry about the crazy person."

After dusting himself off and nodding to acknowledge the arrival of the Poet and Alistair, the Doctor asked, "Why am I a thief? What have I stolen?"

"Me." The woman answered. She talked very lightly, and her speech was a bit disjointed, as though she had thoughts that wanted to get out but she wasn't altogether sure how regular conversation worked. "You're going to steal me. No, you have stolen me. You are stealing me. Tenses are difficult, aren't they?"

"Oh, we are sorry, my dove." The woman apologised, in a voice that resembled her somewhat lumbering physique. "She's off her head. They call me Auntie." She reached out to shake the Doctor's hand.

"I'm Uncle. I'm everybody's uncle." The man chuckled lowly, dully. "Just keep back from this one, heh, she bites!"

"Do I? Excellent." The kissing woman from before latched herself on the Doctor and clamped her whole mouth onto the Doctor's neck, biting him in a ruffle of blue clothing and curly hair. Aunt and Uncle pulled her away again and the Doctor rubbed his neck crossly. "Oh, biting's like kissing! Except there's a winner."

"Oh, I beg to differ." The Poet said under her breath, earning a chuckle from Alistair.

"Sorry. She's doolally." Uncle grumbled apologetically.

"No, I'm not doolally, I'mm . . ." The woman held the 'm' for a bit, frowning. "I'mmm . . . it's on the tip of my tongue." A look of happy realisation came over her face. "I've just had a new idea about kissing! Come here, you!" The Doctor jumped and ran around to hide behind the Poet, peeking around her warily.

"Idris, no, no!" Auntie exclaimed as they held her back.

"Oh, but now you're angry." Idris said thoughtfully, stopping to stare at the Poet. "No, you're not. You will be angry. The little boxes will make you angry."

"Sorry, the little what? Boxes?" The Doctor asked, frowning.

Idris giggled madly. "Your chin is hilarious!" She reached forward to pinch the Doctor's chin. Her head snapped over to look at Rory. "It means the smell of dust after rain."

"What does?" The man asked, clearly perplexed at being suddenly picked out.

"Petrichor."

"But I didn't ask."

"Not yet." Idris answered lightly. "But you will."

"No, Idris, I think you should have a rest." Auntie suggested, ushering the young woman over.

"Yes, yes, good idea! I'll just see if there's an off switch." Idris collapsed on a heap of rubbish.

"Is that it? She's dead now. So sad." Uncle mumbled.

Rory knelt down next to her and took her pulse, holding another hand just over her mouth. "She's still breathing." He informed them.

"Nephew, take Idris somewhere she can not bite people." Uncle said quietly.

They turned and saw a blue-suited Ood standing behind them. "Oh, hello!" The Poet exclaimed, grinning.

"Doctor, what is that?" Amy asked, stepped back to stand by Rory.

"It's all right, it's an Ood." The Doctor reassured her, stepping over to the tentacle-mouthed alien. "Oods are good, love an Ood. Hello, Ood. Can't you talk? Oh, I see, it's damaged. May I?" The Ood nodded, and the Doctor picked the spherical translator off the Ood's shirt and opened it, bringing out his sonic. "It might be the wrong frequency."

"Nephew was broken when he came here." Auntie explained. "Why, he was half dead. House repaired him. House repairs all of us."

The Doctor finished fixing the translator, but it was not fixed in the way they expected it to be. Voices, almost ethereal, echoed around the dark piles of rubbish. The Doctor and Poet both listened with horror, stunned to momentary silence. "Please, if anyone can hear . . . message to the High Council of the Time Lords of Gallifrey . . . still alive! I . . . rock-like planet . . ." Nephew switched off the translator, head tilted curiously and eyes narrowed as Ood's eyes are.

"What was that?" Rory asked. "Was that him?"

"No, no, it's picking up on something else." The Doctor replied, still looking around like the answer would be written in the sky. "But that's . . . that's not possible. That's . . . Who else is here? Tell me. Show me! Show me!" The Doctor turned on Auntie and Uncle.

"Just what you see." Auntie answered timidly, tugging the shawl around her hand closer and taking a cautionary step back. "Just the four of us, and the House. Nephew, will you take Idris somewhere she can't hurt nobody?" Nephew obediently picked up the unconscious woman and carried her inside of the cobbled house structure.

"You said something about the House." The Poet asked, stepping forward. "What's the House?"

"The House is all around you, my sweets." Auntie answered. Uncle hopped up and down to demonstrate, dirty boots squishing in the hard but moist earth. "You're standing on him. This is the House. This world. Would you like to meet him?"

"Meet him?" Rory asked incredulously.

The Doctor threw out an arm in a silent but very clear 'be quiet', almost hitting the Poet as she moved forward to stand next to him. "We'd love to."

"This way. Come, please come." Uncle mumbled as he and Auntie shuffled back inside.

Once they were out of earshot, Amy turned to the Doctor and Poet, who had both taken on concerned expressions. "What's wrong? What were those voices?"

"Time Lords." The Doctor answered. He had that same look on his face when he had met the Poet for the first time. "It's not just the Corsair and the Thief. Somewhere nearby there are lots and lots of . . . Time Lords."

The Poet looked over her shoulder as the Doctor and others started into the cavern. They stopped when she didn't follow, but she waved them on. "You go on, I need to, ah, check on something." She nodded and jogged back off to where her TARDIS was parked to find it gone, four little impressions in the ground where the wardrobe legs had been. There was some sign of scuffling in the mud, and then what looked like human prints walking away.

Someone tapped the Poet's shoulder, and she spun with a gasp. There was a man behind her, straightening out the lapel of a brown blazer. He glanced up at her, eyes glinting brightly blue, as he straightened his cuffs. "Hello, Poet."

"Oh," The Poet let out an annoyed huff. "Thanks for sneaking up on me, already on edge with the regeneration and leaving the universe and all that."

"Hm." The man sniffed non-caringly. "You should handle your personal affairs with more care."

"What are you talking about?"

"Never mind."

"Well, you've certainly gotten cross in the last hundred years." The Poet folded her arms, frowning.

They watched each other a moment, and the TARDIS smiled. "It is good to speak with you face-to-face once more, old friend."

"You too, love." The Poet laughed and hugged him. "And you're safe from whatever was going to drain power from you?"

"Yes, for now. Unless the being that is here discovers and adapts to my altered state, I should be immune to anything that attempts to steal any atron energy." They began walking back to the building, stepping around bits of rubbish and over puddles.

"Do you have any idea yet so far on what's trying to get at you?" The Poet asked. "By the way, there's a mad lady, an Ood and two others here, along with lots more Time Lords. Seems harmless so far."

"No. However, there is something more beneath the crust of this asteroid." Her TARDIS stated, sounding somewhat suspicious. "I cannot tell if it is malevolent or not, but I would be cautious nonetheless. Also, you are quite mistaken."

"What?" The Poet looked to him, suddenly alarmed. "What do you mean? We heard them, there were distress signals; they were on this planet." Her TARDIS looked over to her, his expression vaguely sad.

"Poet . . ." He started, but stopped as they entered the chamber with the others. They were gathered around a slightly raised platform, where Auntie and Uncle were standing. A circular grate was at their feet, emitting a bright green glow around the room.

"Ah! So you've met Time Lords before?" The Doctor asked Auntie and Uncle, who were staring blankly.

"Many travellers come through the rift, like Auntie and Uncle and Nephew." Their mouths were moving in unison, but the voice coming out was deep, male and clearly not theirs. "I repair them when they break."

"So there are Time Lords here, then?" The Poet stepped forward, wanting answers after the TARDIS's nonspecific answers.

"Not any more, but there have been many TARDISes on my back in days gone by." House answered. The TARDIS in the room took a wary step back into the shadows slightly, out of the green light.

"Well, there won't be any more after us." The Doctor informed the planetoid, gesturing between him and the Poet. "Last two Time Lords. Last two TARDISes."

"A pity." House mourned in a deadpan. "Your people were so kind. Be here in safety, Doctor, Poet. Rest, feed, if you will." Auntie and Uncle shifted and looked at each other, clearly released from House's hold.

"We're not actually going to stay here, are we?" Rory asked them quietly.

"It seems like a friendly planet. Literally." The Doctor reasoned. "Mind if we poke around a bit?"

"You can look all you want. Go on, look. House loves you." Auntie encouraged, stepping down from the platform. She reached up to cup Amy's face in her hands, and the shawl fell off of her left, revealing a hand that was very _not _a woman's. The Poet noticed but said nothing, meeting the Doctor's quick glance as they turned to exit.

"Come on, then, gang. We're just going to, erm, see the sights." The Doctor led them out of the chamber. He and the Poet took each other's hands; an automatic anchor for what was to come.

"Oh, yes." The Poet said as her TARDIS came walking up beside them. "Doctor, this is, well, my TARDIS."

"A pleasure to speak with you." The TARDIS shook the Doctor's spare hand, nodding.

"Really? Ah, Type 70 TARDIS, are you?" The Doctor figured. "Excellent, never had a chance to meet a TARDIS in humanoid form yet. How's it feel? Do you have a name?"

"Confining. I have never had need for a title. However, it is a privilege to speak with both of you properly. Being the Poet's long time friend, I feel it is my duty to ask, at this point in your relationship, if your intentions with the Poet are honourable."

Both Time Lords spluttered and looked at him, staring back blankly, but with perhaps a shadow of amusement when he assumed that he had missed the mark a bit regarding time. They realised they were holding hands and hurriedly stopped, putting their hands in their pockets and looking away, both of them flushed.

"Well, that's awkward." Alistair muttered behind them, getting a chuckle and laughs of agreement from the other two humans.

"Donovan, don't you have ginger-ing to do?" The Poet said over her shoulder.

"I didn't know ginger was a verb now."

"You're in my debt."

"Sorry, can't hear you. I'm too busy ginger-ing."

"Thank you." The Poet paused and cocked her head. "What's that? Are those . . ."

"Shh, shh." The Doctor hushed, also listening.

"As soon as the TARDIS is refuelled, we go, yeah?" Rory asked.

"No." The Doctor answered immediately. "There are Time Lords here. I heard them and they need me."

"You told me about your people and you _told _me what you did." Amy spoke up.

"Yeah, but if they're like the Corsair, they're good, I can save them!" The Doctor argued. "And the Poet's here, she's a living exception! There have to be more."

"Then you'll tell them you destroyed the others?!"

"I can explain." The Doctor stopped at the doorway to another room, turning to face them. "Tell them why I had to."

"You want to be forgiven." Amy realised softly.

The Doctor looked at them, to the Poet, and then away. "Don't we all?"

Amy nodded, her face solemn. "What do you need from me?" She finally asked.

"My screwdriver. I left it in the TARDIS. It's in my jacket." The Doctor said. The Poet's TARDIS opened his mouth to say something, and she reached up and clamped her hand across his face.

"You're wearing your jacket." Rory stated the obvious.

"My other one."

"You have two of those?"

"I'll get it, but, Doctor, listen to me." Amy said seriously. "Don't get emotional, because that's when you make mistakes."

"Yes, boss."

"I'll call you from the TARDIS." She tossed her phone over. "Rory, look after them." She walked back the way they had come.

"Rory, look after her." The Doctor instructed.

"Yeah." Rory said after a second, and followed his wife.

"Donovan, look after them." The Poet told him. At his exasperated look, she narrowed her eyes, and he was off in a blink.

"Do I want to know what's going on between you and Alistair?" The Doctor asked her as they moved further into the room. The TARDIS walked off a ways to investigate the room.

"You're involved, if that's anything." The Poet explained, glancing sideways at him. "Apparently he approached you a few days ago, and he's pretty much eternally in my debt." She brought her sonic out of her pocket and flipped it around, scanning a shelf.

The Doctor turned to her with some interest. "So it was all true, then?"

The Poet inwardly grimaced, cursing her cowardice before swallowing it down and speaking. "If what he told me he told you was actually true, and he wasn't lying for whatever reason, then . . . yes, what he said was true." She held up a hand. "Before you say anything, I'm not one to push and shove. I don't know what you and River are, but I'm not going to go throwing myself between people because of my own emotions."

"What, no, she's just a friend, I think, right now she knows more than me." The Doctor said quickly, earning a raised eyebrow in response.

"Let me know when you can get your thoughts and time lines in order, Doctor." The Poet muttered, looking away in barely-veiled disappointment.

The mobile in the Doctor's pocket rang as he opened his mouth to respond, and he picked it up and listened for a moment. "Yeah, it's around somewhere." He said, taking his sonic out of his jacket. "Have a good look." He activated it, the little light turning green a moment.

"Did you just lock those three in your TARDIS?" The Poet asked. The Doctor nodded and they continued looking around the room for the Time Lords. They walked around, both sniffed and listening and such.

"Come on! Where are you? Now where are you all? Where are you?" The Doctor mumbled, listening around.

"They are there." The Poet's TARDIS said his first words since they entered the room. He was pointing to a ragged curtain. They stepped over and pushed it aside to reveal a small alcove with not much in it.

"Thanks for that, love, what are we supposed to do with this?" The Poet grumbled up to her TARDIS, who frowned and looked around the alcove.

"Wait." The Doctor seemed to listen for a moment, and the Poet heard it a moment later. The murmuring voices. They both turned the same way, looking at a little cabinet set into the wall. The Doctor opened it to reveal shelves stuffed with the little glowing cubes, the signals they had both received. The murmuring was clearer now; it could now be distinguished as a hundred cries for help. Footsteps shuffled behind them.

"Just admiring your Time Lord distress signal collection. Nice job. Brilliant job. Really thought we had some friends here . . . but this is what the Ood translator picked up. Cries for help, from the long dead." The Doctor murmured coldly, bowing his head away from the rack of glowing cubes. The Poet could feel a familiar tearing sorrow inside her chest, one she had felt too many years ago, when she had been informed that the Time War had been . . . ended. She turned with the Doctor to stare at Auntie and Uncle.

"How many Time Lords have you lured here, the way you lured us?" The Doctor accused, stalking up to them.

"House, House is kind and he is wise." Auntie mumbled.

"House repairs you when you break, yes, I know!" The Doctor snapped. "But how does he mend you?" He held the sonic up to Uncle. "You have the eyes of a twenty year old."

"Thank you." Uncle grumbled.

"No, I mean it literally. Your eyes are 30 years younger than your face. Your ears don't match, your right arm is two inches longer than your left, and how's your dancing?" The Doctor stepped back and forth. "'Cause you've got two left feet. Patchwork people. You've been repaired and patched up so often, I doubt there's anything left of what you used to be." He tucked away the sonic and slapped Auntie's hand. "I had an umbrella like you once."

Something shone dully in the corner of the Poet's eye, hanging on Uncle's faux military belt. She reached over and ripped it away. It was quickly apparent that it was a worn, slightly dirtied skeleton key, almost too large in order to properly fit the hand. "Where did you get this?" The Poet breathed.

"That one came by long time ago. Quite a little bloke, he was." Auntie said, nodding to the key. "Thin fella. I got a leg, and Uncle got the stomach and the liver, and that queer key. Haven't found a use for it yet."

"You wouldn't." The Poet murmured, swallowing a lump in her throat. "It's the Thief's. It's a sonic screwdriver." She touched a little nub at the end of the metal, and a light humming echoed in the deathly silent chamber. "I knew him. I knew him very well. And you killed him, he's gone. Now not only did you meet me after murdering a friend of mine but right now I am in a very, very cross mood." The Poet looked up after respectfully tucking the key into her jacket. "Run for your_ life!" _She roared.

Auntie hurried away, startled. Uncle began backing off, twisting his hands. "Poor old Time Lords." He said in his mumbling voice. "Too late. House is too clever." He turned and hoofed it out of there as fast as his left feet could carry him.

The Doctor looked over to the Poet after he was gone. "Are you okay?" He asked quietly.

The Poet pinched the bridge of her nose, taking a long, deep breath. "No." She rubbed her eyes, tears of anger burning there. "I think we need to find that mad lady."

The Doctor watched her for a moment, expression unreadable, before he seemed to register what she said. "Oh, right!" At the same moment, the mobile rang, and he picked it up, listening. When he spoke, it was to both the Poet and Amy. "'The boxes will make you angry.' How could she know? . . . Stay put. Stay exactly where you are."

He started off down the hall they'd come, taking the Poet's hand and tucking the mobile away in his pocket. The TARDIS followed them silently down the corridors, winding away in the bluish-green dim light, the halls made of rubbish. She found walking with the Doctor different than walking with Alistair. In the latter case, she felt more like she was leading, her ginger friend following with fearful loyalty. Now, striding through the rubbish halls hand-in-hand with the Doctor, she found herself feeling more as an equal with him than anyone yet. For the first time in many years, she realised that one thing she had missed desperately since the Time War was the feeling of being not leader and follower, or planner and actor, but rather two beings on the same mental wavelength, understanding one another completely—without saying a word.


	24. The Best Thing There Is

_I'm sorry for the delay, I've had a lot of things to do and updates are definitely going to be slower…not every three days. Sorry!_

_**Listen to **__"Optimus" by John Ottoman during the scene when they're taking off with the ramshackle TARDIS. Love it. __**SERIOUSLY. I DON'T KNOW WHY BUT DO IT. **__Or "Firework" by Katy Perry. They both work, weirdly enough. Whichever one tickles your fancy. That sounds dirty but it's really not._

_Settle in with some popcorn or something because this is an EPIC one._

_W'P_

"_Remember, we all stumble, every one of us. That's why it's a comfort to go hand in hand." -Emily Kimbrough_

_-o-_

"Where's the mad lady? Nephew took her away somewhere."

"Not sure. I'll find her, you go off and get the other three."

A snort. "Like I'm going to leave you here."

"It'll be faster, we need to find them anyway. Can your TARDIS go back to, you know, box-y form?"

"It takes a long time. He can start now but it'll be hours. It's the emergency button."

A huff. "Oh, you just have to be _difficult_, don't you?"

"My favourite past time. Not to mention you get this entertaining little frown on when you've got a problem in front of you."

"Should I be flattered?"

"If you want to be. TARDIS, dear, could you go find the humans?" The TARDIS walked briskly ahead. They stopped walking for a moment, the Poet continuing a step before falling back to the Doctor, who was giving her that look. "Don't give me that look."

"What look? I'm not giving you a look."

"Yes you were. You were giving me the, 'Poet you aren't going to endanger yourself for my sake because we're the last two Time Lords and neither of us want any more guilt on our consciences if either of us get hurt' look."

"Okay, so, maybe I was giving you the look. But you know it's true."

"And _you _know I'm not helpless. Time Lady, remember? Like you." She squeezed his hand, they two now standing close in the dim corridor. "I'm coming with you if you like it or not and that's that. Unless you really do want me to go, because then I will."

The Doctor hesitated, thinking over the statement fully. "No." He finally murmured.

The Poet smiled a little in relief despite herself. "Well, that settles that, hm?" They were circling, spinning around in the hall right next to each other like a taunting dance. She reached up and drifted a hand across his cheek, her expression briefly wistful, like a mask she let slip and fumbled to wear once more. "For now, at least."

The Doctor took her hand as it fell, smirking quickly. "Right." He sniffed and turned to look down the hall. "This way, then?" They started off again at a quicker pace now, walking closer and giving a few more unseen sidelong glances.

"Here we are." They stopped in a room that seemed like one-person prison. The little cavern was lit the same as the rest of the planet, but part of the room was a cage which contained the crazy lady. Her eyes were closed and she was sitting on the floor, facing them.

"How did you know about the boxes?" The Doctor asked sharply. "You said they would make _her_ angry, how did you know?" He pointed to the Poet.

"Ah." The woman sighed. "It's my thief."

"Who are you?"

Idris opened her eyes to look between them. "It's about time."

"Who are you?" The Doctor repeated, asking more forcefully.

"Do you not know me? Just because they put me in here?" Idris leaned forward.

"You were dangerous and bitey, 'course they put you in there." The Poet pointed out.

"Not the cage, stupid. In here." She placed her hands on her cheeks, staring at them through the bars. "They put me . . . in _here. _I'm the . . . oh, what do you call me? We travel. I go . . ." She pursed her lips and the sound of the TARDIS braking came out, whooshing familiarly.

"The TARDIS?" The Doctor asked. He and the Poet looked at each other skeptically.

"Time and relative dimensions in space." Idris said, her speech disjointed as ever. "Yes, that's it. Names _are _funny. It's me!" She leaned forward and grasped the bars. "I'm the TARDIS."

"No, you're not! You're a bitey, mad lady." The Doctor denied. "The TARDIS is uppy downy stuff in a big blue box."

"Yes, that's me. A Type 40 TARDIS. I was already a museum piece, when you were young, and the first time you touched my console you said . . ."

"I said you were the most beautiful thing I'd ever known." The Doctor intercepted quietly, now facing away from her. The Poet smiled, thinking of her own time machine. She knew exactly what it was like. They were more than vehicles—they were lifelong friends.

"And then you stole me. And I stole you." Idris stood, still holding the bars of the cage.

"I borrowed you." The Doctor muttered.

"Borrowing implies the eventual intention to return of the thing that was taken." Idris defined lightly. "What makes you think I would ever give _you _back?"

The Doctor spun around, frowning at her incredulously. "You're the TARDIS?"

"Yes."

"_My _TARDIS_?"_

"My Doctor. Oh! We have now reached the point in the conversation where you open the lock." She smiled. The Doctor reached out and unlocked the door, the sonic whirring. Idris stepped out, strutting thoughtfully around the two Time Lords to stop in front of the Doctor. She studied him for a moment. "Are all people like this?"

"Like what?" He asked, leaning back just slightly.

"So much bigger on the inside? I'm . . . oh, what is that word? It's so big, so complicated. It's so sad."

"I have someone you would be thrilled to meet." The Poet grinned. She wasn't as put off by this, having seen and talked with her own TARDIS on several occasions. It was rare but not shock-worthy. Idris wasn't as good at "blending in", so to speak. The Poet's TARDIS was better trained to speak normally, though he still had the occasional hiccup. Sometimes literally.

"But why?" The Doctor asked her, circling him. "Why pull the living soul from a TARDIS and stuff it inside a tiny human head? What does it want you for?"

"It doesn't want me." Idris sniffed him as she walked.

"How do you know?" The Doctor brought his jacket up and sniffed it suspiciously.

"House eats TARDISes."

"House what? What do you mean?"

"I don't know. It's something I heard you say."

"When?"

"In the future."

"House eats TARDISes?"

"There you go." Idris reached up and pushed a thumb against the Doctor's lips, effectively silencing him.

"Wait, how could House . . ." The Poet started, but stopped when Idris put her other hand on her mouth.

"What are fish fingers?" The embodied TARDIS asked neither of them in particular, looking at them down her arms.

"When do I say that?" The Doctor muffled past her hand.

"Any second."

"Of course!" The Doctor moved away, taking her hand away. "House feeds on rift energy and TARDISes are bursting with it. And not raw. All lovely and cooked, processed food . . . Mm, fish fingers."

"Do fish have fingers?"

"But you can't eat a TARDIS, it would destroy you. Unless, unless . . ."

"Unless you deleted the TARDIS matrix first." Idris finished.

The Doctor chuckled, a little sarcastically. "So it deleted you."

"But House just can't delete a TARDIS' consciousness, that would blow a hole in the universe. He pulls out the matrix, sticks it in a living receptacle and feeds off the remaining Artron energy." Idris looked at the Doctor with sudden realisation. "You were about to say all that. I don't suppose you have to now."

"Oh my god." The Poet reached over and grabbed the mobile from the Doctor's pocket, flipping it open. "Amy, Rory and Alistair are in there." The other end clicked on. "Hello, one of you!" The Doctor took her hand and they ran off, toward the entrance. "Amy, Rory, Donovan, get out of there! Get out now, get the _hell _out!"

"Poet, something's wrong." It was Amy, sounding concerned.

"Yeah, it's House. He wants the TARDISes. Now get out!" They turned around a corner, stumbling up and continuing away.

"We can't! The Doctor locked the door!"

"Damn it." The Poet put the phone to her shoulder and looked at the Doctor. "Unlock the doors!"

"I did!" The Doctor hissed back.

The Poet put the phone up. "The door's unlocked!"

"It bloody well isn't!" Amy snapped. The Doctor and Poet sprinted out of the caverns, finding the latter's TARDIS standing outside, peering into the keyhole. They began pulling at the doors, their yells being accompanied by the humming of sonic screwdrivers.

"Open!" The Doctor bellowed, stepping back and snapping his fingers. The Poet simply threw herself at the doors shoulder-first. The wood creaked but didn't even give. The call light on top was lit up green. "_Open this door!" _

"Doctor." The Poet pulled on his arm as the box began to dematerialise. They watched it go in helpless horror, stepping back and staring as it faded away. The TARDIS sniffed the air, frowned, and ran back into the building. "Hey, wait!" The Poet sighed and leaned against the Doctor, who gave a little laugh.

"Okay. Right." The Time Lord placed an arm around her shoulders. "I don't . . . I really don't know what to do now. That's a new feeling." He slapped his own face and they jogged back off into the building.

"Where's my TARDIS run off to?" The Poet muttered as they twisted through the building. Her answer was revealed to her as they came into a small room, where Idris was sitting, her hand held in one of the TARDIS's as he gave it a polite kiss. The Poet crossed her arms and cleared her throat, making both personified machines start and look to their Time Lords.

"I see you've already taken the liberty of introducing yourself, love." The Poet's tone was more amused than anything, her TARDIS blushing lightly.

"Yes, I have not had the chance to speak with another TARDIS properly in quite some time." He turned back to Idris and bowed deeply. "Charmed."

"Playboy." The Poet sighed, and clapped her hands. "It's gone."

"Eaten?" Idris asked.

"No, not eaten, hi-jacked. But why?" The Doctor began pacing, stalking back and forth around the room. Auntie and Uncle emerged from the other end of the room, swaddled in dirty blankets and lumbering towards them.

"It's time for us both to go, and keep together." Auntie sighed, limping to sit on some unidentifiable piece of rubbish.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Go? What do you mean go? Where are you going?" The Doctor asked them frowning.

"Well, we're dying, my love. It's time for Auntie and Uncle to pop off." Auntie said, like she was informing them of nothing more than the Sunday weather.

"I'm against it." Uncle shrugged.

"It's your fault, isn't it, sweets?" Auntie told the Time Lords, finally sitting down. "'Cause you told House them were the last two TARDISes. House can't feed on them if there's none more coming, can he?"

"So now he's off to your universe to find more TARDISes . . ." Uncle sighed.

"It won't." The Doctor said shortly, arms crossed and chin up.

"Oh, it will think of something." Auntie groaned and slumped over, unmoving. The Poet hurried forward, taking her dirty hand and checking for a pulse, her other hand resting on her neck.

"Actually, I feel fine." Uncle stood, the blanket falling off. He crumpled a second later, equally still. The Doctor rushed over to him, going through the same motions.

"Not dead. You can't just _die!" _He stressed, looking at the two patchwork bodies.

"We need to go where I landed, you three, quickly." Idris said.

"Why?" The Doctor asked, still disconcerted about the suddenly dead inhabitants.

"Because we are there in three minutes." Idris stood, looking to the door. "We need to go now!" She started running but stopped with a gasp, holding her side in pain. The Poet's TARDIS put a gentle hand on her shoulder, watching with conern. "Roughly, how long do these bodies last."

The Doctor and Poet both pointed their sonics at her and looked at their result, faces grim. "You're dying." The Doctor breathed.

"Yes of course I'm dying." Idris grabbed his sonic away, still with a hand on her middle. "I don't belong in a flesh body. I could blow a casing in no time. No, stop it, don't get emotional. That's what the orangey girl says. You're the Doctor. Focus." She handed him back his sonic.

"On what? How? I'm a mad man with a box without a box!" He snatched the sonic back, cross. "I'm stuck down the plughole at the end of the universe on a stupid, old,_ junkyard! _Oh." He calmed, as he seemed to suddenly realise something.

"What?" The Poet asked.

"No, we're not." He said to her.

"Yes we are, it's a junkyard, we're stuck."

"No, it's not a junkyard. Don't you see? It's a TARDIS junkyard." He grinned, and the Poet smiled back, laughing lightly as she realised what that meant.

She jumped forward and grabbed her TARDIS's hand, and he followed her with a reluctant look back to Idris. The Poet dragged him through the halls, talking as they went. "Oh, he's a right genius, that man. TARDIS junkyard, this is brilliant. Probably impossible, though, I mean, at least not easy. You and Idris should help though, can't quite go build a working time machine on our own now can we?"

"Please stop chattering, Poet." Her TARDIS sighed. She looked back at him with a frown and a silent question. "You talk when you become anxious. To many it seems charming but I know you too well." His mouth contorted slightly in what seemed to be his interpretation of a smile. "Be calm."

The Poet sighed and slowed her walk. "Sorry. I know, I babble, but I'm worried for Alistair and the Ponds, and with the Doctor's death still out there somewhere in time," She waved a hand to indicate some point on the big ball of wibbly-wobbly. "I've been more on edge than ever, recently."

"Understandable. There is another reason." The TARDIS put a hand on her shoulder and another on her cheek, peering at her face intently, glowing blue eyes flicking between her odd ones for a few seconds. "The Doctor."

The Poet moved away, a bit too fast, so it almost looked like a flinch. "Yeah, the Doctor, what about him?"

"You forget how well I know you."

She sighed and made an exasperated little stomp. "What do you want me to say?" She hissed, leaning in.

"Only what you know is true."

"Fine." The Poet crossed her arms. "Maybe what I feel for the Doctor . . . hasn't been totally professional lately. I've explained this before, why does everyone ask?"

"People care for you." The TARDIS explained, his voice remaining curiously deadpan. "Me, the orange man. The Doctor. None of us want to see you hurt because of your own stubbornness."

"I think after a thousand years alive, I can deal with my own personal affairs." The Poet snapped, taking a dangerous step closer. "Why are my feelings for the Doctor any concern of yours?"

The TARDIS gave her a long look before responding. "Everything of yours is a concern of mine. Do not treat me as your inferior and remember that we are equals."

The Poet frowned at him for a moment, and silently turned and continued on outside. They climbed up a muddy, slippery ridge a ways behind the main building and looked down at the massive, smoking crater. The Doctor and Idris caught up to them shortly after and they looked down over the smouldering remains of thousands of TARDISes. Some were quite large, most of their mechanics remaining in place, whilst others had been completely reduced to rubble. The sight was nothing short of utterly heartbreaking for all four of them.

"A valley of half-eaten TARDISes." The Doctor breathed. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"I'm thinking that all of my brothers and sisters are dead." Idris replied quietly, sadly, with a glance to the only other TARDIS present. "That they were devoured, and that we are looking at their corpses."

"Ah. Sorry, no, I wasn't thinking that."

"No. You were thinking you could build a working TARDIS console out of broken remnants of a hundred different models." She smiled lightly. "And you don't care that it's impossible."

"It's not impossible as long as we are alive." The Doctor said. "Amy, Rory and Alistair need us. So, yeah," He grinned. "We're gonna build a TARDIS."

They started down the slope, sliding in the muck and grabbing for some traction, making ruts of sludge and gravel behind them. The Gallifrey natives eventually found a clearing of sorts, where the rubbish was not so condensed and they had room to create. They split up; the Time Lords off to find walls, and the embodied time machines in a different direction to retrieve more complex items necessary.

The Poet grabbed a length of rope up from the ground, dirty water dripping off the fabric. The Doctor grabbed a large, flat-ish plate of metal, giving it a few experimental taps. The Time Lady brought over the rope and began tying it around the slightly rusted plate. The silence between them wasn't particularly awkward, but also not profoundly comfortable. No reason for it that the Poet could fathom, unless . . .

"Doctor," She said, picking up part of the rope to help him drag the metal. "Is something wrong?"

He looked at her as they began dragging the plate. "No, nothing's wrong. Well, other than the usual stuff, friends trapped in a runaway TARDIS, but other than that, no, why?"

"Ah, no reason really. You seem a bit cross." The Poet looked up to see her TARDIS and Idris rifling through a pile of junk for usable materials. The former was gazing at the blue-dressed woman with a look close to adoration. The Poet rolled her eyes with a smile and continued yanking the plate along. "This is fun, though."

"Oh, yeah." The Doctor agreed breathlessly. "Haven't rebuilt a TARDIS console for—urgh—some time." They finished pulling the floor to the console to the side of the clearing, gasping and wiping sweat away. The Poet untied the rope and slung it over her shoulder. She grinned as the Doctor held up a hand and high-fived him with a laugh.

-o-

Alistair ran full-speed through the corridors of the Doctor's TARDIS, which was a bit odd, as he had never really been much further than the console room. The halls were glowing a morbid green, the indication of House's presence in the machine. He ran through the corridors, wary of any tricks House might pull. Alistair skid around a corner and yelled, stopping suddenly at a deep hole in the floor. House had turned off the anti-gravity, so falling would mean death.

He hopped over the pit to the left and continued running, like House wanted him to. He'd lost Amy and Rory a while back, and he hoped they were still together. He regretted not sticking with them now; it couldn't have been more than an hour since they started, but it felt like days.

Alistair jogged around the corner and stopped in his tracks, frowning. Someone was standing in the hall. "Hello?"

The person quickly turned around with a gasp. Alistair fell back a step when he saw the Poet, her hair frazzled and dress ripped. "Alistair?" She breathed, and ran up to him.

"What the?" He stood still as she hugged him, his arms out in deep confusion. After a second he pushed her away and held her at arm's length. "Poet, how did you get here?"

"Oh, you know me, always a trick up my sleeve." She waved a hand nonchalantly and grabbed one of his. "Come on, I know the way out!"

"Wait, how? And you look awful, what happened?" He followed her out of habit, jogging along behind.

"Intuition, Donovan." The Poet answered, leading him down a couple turning corridors. "And this? Not much. Had to fight my way past Nephew to get here, but—"

Alistair ripped his hand away and took a step back, rubbing his temples and shaking his head, but smirking all the same. "Nice try, House. Had me going there for a minute." He looked at the Poet replica. "But the Poet doesn't _fight _past anyone."

The faux Time Lady froze. Alistair blinked, and she was gone. "I'm impressed, Alistair." A deep voice boomed in the hall, making the human flinch. "But your luck won't last forever."

"Wanna bet?" Alistair scoffed, and tore off once again through the sickly halls.

-o-

"Finally!" The Poet gasped, falling against the third cobbled-together wall of the console, practically drowning in sweat. Her body temperature must have been all the way up to 20 degrees by then. "That was terrible."

"Almost done, now." The Doctor panted, taking the rope off the wall and walking over to the junk heaps where they were finding their walls. The centre console now looked much more proper now, like a real console. The Poet's TARDIS was glowing softly blue as he began turning back into his box-y form, but there was no way they could get out using him.

"Here, this looks promising." The Poet pointed to a larger metal plate and they jogged over and began tying it up. "This is gonna hurt."

"Not as much as being stranded here will." The Doctor grunted, heaving the plate away. "The bubble universe will reach absolute zero in . . ." He checked his watch. "Three and a half hours. Let's get a move on!"

The pair tugged the huge plate around the corner of rubbish and into view of the TARDIS, a walk which took up a little over half an hour, even though they had started just a few steps away. Idris and the TARDIS were in the pinkish, tiny console room, fiddling with little bits of machinery.

"Bond the tube directly into the Tachyon Diverter." Idris called over, tapping something with her finger.

"Yes, yes, I have actually rebuilt a TARDIS before, you know. I know what I'm doing." The Doctor replied loudly, giving the wall another good heave.

The Poet, in front, stepped forward and slipped, splashing pungent mud across her dress and scraping her knees. "Ugh!" She snapped in frustration. That was the fourth time she'd done that; she was starting to dislike her newly regenerated self.

"You're like a nine-year-old trying to rebuild a motorbike in his bedroom." Idris went on as the Doctor helped the Poet up. "And you never read the instructions."

"I always read the instructions!" He argued, picking the rope back up and continuing to yank the wall along.

"There's a sign at my front door. You have been walking past it for 700 years. What does it say?"

"That's not instructions!"

"There's an instruction at the bottom. What does it say?"

"Pull to open."

"Yes, and what do you do?"

"I push!" The Doctor admitted.

"Every single time." Idris sighed, clearly irritated. "700 years. Police Box doors open _out _the way."

The Doctor threw down his part of the rope and stalked over to the makeshift console. The Poet and her TARDIS watched on silently. "I think I've earned the right to open my front doors any way I want!" He snapped at her.

"_Your _front doors? Have you any idea how childish that sounds?" Idris said indignantly.

The Doctor turned back around and marched back to the Poet and the metal slab, muttering. "You are not my mother."

"And you are not my child!"

He turned back again. "You since, since we're talking, with mouths, not an opportunity that comes along very often, I just want to say, you know, _you,_" He pointed at Idris' face, and the Poet's TARDIS put a protective hand on her shoulder. "Have never been very reliable."

"And you have?" Idris countered.

"You didn't always take me where I wanted to go." The Doctor grumbled, walking away again.

"No, but I always took you where you needed to go."

The Doctor stopped in his tracks, his expression changing. "You did." The Poet smiled as he spun around again, gleeful. "Look at us, talking! Wouldn't it be amazing if we could always talk, even when you're inside the box?"

"You know I'm not constructed that way." Idris looked at him, puffing out her. "I exist across all time and space, and you talk and run around and bring home strays." She suddenly toppled over, but was caught by the Poet's ever-watchful TARDIS. The Time Lords hurried over to her.

"Are you okay?" The Doctor asked, scanning her over with the sonic.

"One of the kidneys has already failed." The dark-haired woman said quietly. "It doesn't matter. We need to finish assembling the console."

"Using a console without a proper shell. It's not going to be safe." The Doctor warned.

"This body has about 18 minutes left to live. This universe will reach Absolute Zero in three hours. Safe is relative."

The Doctor ran back to the wall, picking up the rope behind the smiling Poet and continuing their slow, tiring journey for a couple metres away.

-o-

"Ah!" Alistair stopped at the edge of another dead corridor, looking down into the depths of the dark hall. Now practised at it, he shimmied around the edge and kept on down right. "You know, House, you should find some better tricks!"

The instant the words left his mouth, the floor beneath him dropped away. He screamed as he went tumbling down, arms flailing helplessly. Looking up, the greenish light was fading away to a dot. Below, there was nothing but a gaping maw of darkness that swelled up to consume him. Alistair could do nothing but scream, wondering how long it would take for him to hit the bottom. If there was a bottom. He wasn't sure. The Poet had never told him if TARDISes went on forever or not.

And then, as abruptly as it began, Alistair found his feet on solid ground. He gasped in panic, patting his body, checking that he was still alive. "Oh, god," He laughed, but shut his mouth as House spoke again.

"Is that "new" enough for you?" The conscious asked in his condescending deadpan, and laughed a few short chuckles. "Hm hm hm. Run."

Alistair couldn't do it fast enough.

-o-

The Doctor carried a small central column over his shoulder toward the nearly finished, patched-together, mini TARDIS. They were all stuffed into the little machine now, tinkering and putting the finishing touches on the console.

"You'll need to install the time router." Idris informed them offhandedly.

"Well, can't have a TARDIS without a proper time router." The Poet called up from below the console, tinkering with the controls underneath, the humming of her sonic buzzing up with her voice.

"How is this going to make it through the rift?" The Doctor lowered the column into the nearly-finished console and took a step back. The Poet quickly laced wires up to it, sonicing away. "We're almost there. Thrust diffuser. Er, retro scope. Blue . . . thingy."

Idris moved away to sift through a pile of rubbish next to the console, and the Doctor walked outside the little pink-lit room to join her. The Poet scooted under the console again, twisting wires together and flicking them experimentally.

"Almost back to box form, love?" She called out to her TARDIS. "That would be so convenient for once."

"Afraid I still have several hours to go." He replied regretfully, handing a little wrench down to her, which she used to crank some bolts a little tighter.

"Of course." The Poet grumbled. "And we have to get off this planet in a few minutes before Idris dies or this whole universe collapses in on itself. Can't catch a break."

"You should complain less. It really does get annoying."

She wriggled out from under the panels and gave him an incredulous look. "I don't complain _that _much!"

"You do."

"Ugh." The Poet shook her head and stood, though was smiling a little. "About done over here!" She called to the other two, and they lined up outside to look in on the little console.

"Right. Perfect. Look at that." The Doctor assessed. "What could possibly go wrong?" A little piece on the side sprung out with a little clatter. "That's fine, that always happens. No! Hang on! Wait!" He grabbed a red velvet rope and rushed forward with it. He handed one end to the Poet and they attached it to the open wall of the makeshift time machine, ushering the TARDISes inside with them.

"Passengers, please keep your hands and legs inside the ride at all times." The Poet informed in an anticipating monotone, smiling around at the others as she and the Doctor began to launch. "No eating, drinking or tinkering with causality until the TARDIS has come to a complete crash."

The Doctor yanked the launch lever down. The engines whirred, then came to a sighing halt. Idris played with her cheeks in a little mirror on the console as the Time Lords began to stress.

"It can't hold a charge." The Doctor fretted. "We can't even start it. There's no power!" He saw Idris and threw a hand over the mirror in frustration, making it clank against other bits and bobs. He sighed. "I've got nothing."

Idris and the Poet's TARDIS looked at each other in knowing amusement, a look that the Poet didn't miss. "What was that?" She asked, pointing at them. "That look, what was it?"

"You have missed the obvious again, Poet." The TARDIS replied.

"Oh, my beautiful idiot." Idris sighed to the Doctor, who looked up at her. "You've had what you've always had—you've got me."

She kissed her finger, eyes glowing, shining gold. Curtains of the same shimmering colour drifted along her arms and around her body as she touched her finger to the console tower. The TARDIS whooshed like the brakes were on. An orb of amber and rose morphed around the shell, and they dematerialsed.

The ceiling and a wall were missing, so they could see out of the golden force-field as they hurled away from the little rubbish-asteroid and out into space. The ride was pretty rough; the machine jolted so much that they all had to hold onto something for fear of falling over completely. The Poet and Doctor were both laughing like mad, and high-fived in victory. Idris and the TARDIS were holding on for dear life, being on the open side.

"_Whoo-hoo!" _The Doctor whooped as they hurtled into the rift between universes. The Poet spun around to the other side of him, dress billowing. She hit a couple switches, still laughing and looking out on the nebula-like rift.

-o-

"Gah!"

"Whoa!"

"Ouch!"

Alistair and the Ponds crashed together in an intersecting corridor, yelling in surprised. They stumbled away, looking on warily.

"God am I glad to see you two again!" Alistair laughed.

"How do we know you're not one of House's tricks?" Amy asked suspiciously, eyeing him.

"Yeah, he could be messing with our heads again." Rory agreed.

"Well, how can we be sure that we aren't fake or hallucinating?" Alistair asked them, bouncing on his heels.

"We can't." Amy said shortly. "Let's just keep going." The boys nodded and the three ran off down the third and only passage none of them had entered yet.

-o-

"We've locked onto them!" Idris shouted over the great bellowing in the TARDIS shell. "They'll have to lower the shields when I'm close enough to phase inside."

"Can you get a message to Amy?" The Doctor yelled back. "The telepathic circuits are online."

"Which one's Amy?" She called. "The pretty one?" She focused for a moment before exclaiming, "Hello, Pretty!"

The Doctor and Poet both stumbled over to her, tapping into the telekinetic field around her to look in. "Don't worry. Telepathic messaging." The Doctor butt in. "No, that's Rory." He hopped away to hit a few things on the console as Idris continued giving instructions on how to lower the shields. He came back a second later, looking back in on the vision. "The pretty one?!"

"How's he going to be able to take down the shields anyway?" The Doctor asked loudly as they continued steering the out-of-control room. "The House is in the control room."

"I directed him to one of the old control rooms." Idris answered.

"There aren't any old control rooms! They were all deleted or remodelled."

"I archive them. For neatness. I've got about thirty now."

"But I've only changed the desktop, what, a dozen times?"

"So far, yes!"

"You can't archieve something that hasn't happened yet!" The Doctor roared over the deafening wind.

"_You _can't!" Idris grinned. She was really steering the TARDIS herself now, with a bit of help from the Poet's TARDIS, but mostly doing it single-handedly. The shell hurtled through space at a blistering pace, catching up to the blue police box in the whirling colours of the rift.

"Keep going!" The Doctor yelled, grinning like a manic. "You're doing it, you sexy thing!"

"See, you _do _call me that!" Idris said to him, getting a bark of laughter from the Poet. "Is that my name?"

"You bet it's your name!" The Doctor howled. "Whoo!"

The blue box was visible now, spinning around as it whirled through the bumping, crashing rift in space. The Doctor and the Poet were still grinning, occasionally whooping at some more violent jerks or jumps in the console even when it sent them toppling over. They started to advance on the TARDIS, and Idris closed her eyes to send another telepathic message to Rory.

"It's not going to hold!" She cried back at them as they began to materialise in the TARDIS. They held on with all their might as they appeared in the console room; although it wasn't quite the one the Poet was used to. It was the Doctor's TARDIS all right, but the room looked a bit different. Older, somehow.

The shell came to a halt and they stumbled out as it rained popping showers of sparks on them. The room was quite dark, and sort of a sick green colour, not like the bright yellow and multi-coloured theme the TARDIS usually kept up. Amy, Alistair and Rory were standing next to the console, staring at them with stricken expressions that turned to happiness.

"Doctor!" Amy grinned, running up to hug him.

"Donovan, there you are." The Poet smiled, dusting herself off. "Didn't I tell you to look after them?" Alistair simply laughed in relief and hugged her.

"Not good. Not good at all." Idris muttered, looking ill and standing with wobbly knees. The Poet's TARDIS gently helped her to sit down. "How do you walk in these things?"

"Not quite there yet. Just hold on." The Doctor said, standing next to her. "Amy, this is . . . Well, this is my TARDIS. Except she's a woman. She's a woman, and she's my TARDIS."

"_She's _the TARDIS?" Amy asked, pointing at Idris.

"And she's a woman." The Doctor continued to point out. "She's a woman, and she's my TARDIS."

"Did you wish_ really _hard?" Amy asked as Idris stood shakily up with help from the Poet's TARDIS.

"Shut up, not like that." He muttered.

"Hello,, I'm . . ." Idris searched for her name. "Sexy."

"Oh, still shut up!" The Doctor pointed at the Ponds and Alistair, who were giving him equally disbelieving and suggestive ooks.

"The Environment has been breached." House droned in that voice that was infuriatingly, perpetually bored and curious at the same time. "Nephew, kill them all."

They looked around for the Ood, but no one was trying to kill them. "Where's Nephew?" Rory finally asked.

"He was standing right where you materialised." Amy pointed out.

"Ah." The Poet said, making a slight face.

"'Ah'? What's 'Ah'?" Alistair asked.

"He's been redistributed."

"Meaning?"

"You're breathing him." The Doctor finished, earning noises of revulsion. "Another Ood I failed to save." He added quietly.

"Doctor, I did not expect you." House said neutrally, if a tad intrigued.

"Well, that's me all over, isn't it?" The Doctor walked casually around the console like nothing was wrong, looking in the general direction of the ceiling. "Lovely old unexpected me."

"The question is, now you are here, how to dispose of you?" House considered menacingly. "I could play with gravity . . ." The Poet crumpled to the ground, hard, like a giant hand was holding her down, pressing her into the floor. From her perspective, her neck painfully cricked against the glass, she could see Amy's feet and the Doctor's arm. Idris was still lying down when the gravity was released, and the TARDIS and Rory both went to her side.

"Or I could evacuate the air from this room, and watch you choke." House continued nonchalantly. There was a high-pitched rushing of air, and the Poet fell to her knees, gasping desperately for air. It was different than the vacuum of space, somehow. This could actually hurt her.

"You really don't want to do that!" The Doctor heaved, holding his throat. The hissing of air stopped, and the Poet sucked in great lungfuls of air, relieved but recovering slightly faster than the humans present.

"Because then I won't be able to help you!" The Doctor continued. "Listen to your engines. Just listen to them. You don't have the thrust and you know it. I'm your only hope for getting out of your little bubble, through the rift, and into my universe. And mine's the one with the food in! You just have to promise not to kill us. That's all, just promise." Idris, lying on the floor still, was whispering quickly and urgently to the two kneeling by her.

"You can't be serious." Amy told him.

"I'm very serious. I'm sure it's an entity of its word." The Doctor said. The Poet looked over to him, slightly quizzically. His eyes widened the tiniest bit and he glanced very briefly at the dying Idris. She instantly understood and twitched her head in an unnoticeable nod.

"Doctor, she's burning up. She's asking for water." Rory called over to them.

The Doctor stepped over to Idris and knelt, taking her free hand, as one was already being held by the TARDIS. "Hey." He said gently. "Hang in there, old girl. Not long now. It'll be over soon."

"I always liked it when you called me . . . old girl." Idris breathed. Her face was shiny with sweat, and her chest moved in erratic, worryingly shallow breaths.

"You want me to give my word? Easy. I _promise._" House sounded almost sarcastic, but it didn't matter if he was lying or not. It was impossible to tell, anyway.

"Fine. Okay. I believe you." The Doctor looked away from Idris and spoke to House. "Just delete, oh, 30% of the TARDIS rooms, you'll free up thrust enough to make it through. Activate Sub-routine Sigma-9."

"Why would you tell me this?"

The Doctor stood. "Because we want to get back to our universe as much as you do. And I'm _nice._"

"Ye-es." House drew out the word with a very scheming tone, sounding very much like the cat that caught the mouse. "I can delete rooms, and I can also rid myself of vermin if I delete _this _room first. Thank you, Doctor, very helpful. Goodbye, Time Lords. Goodbye, little humans. Goodbye, Idris."

White light shot in blinding beams from above. The Poet squinted into the light, holding an arm over her eyes and doing nothing as her body tumbled away into nothing. It was actually really peaceful. Just kind of floating around, not really any sort of physical, specific being. For a brief second, she was a thought. One among trillions and not any more or less important. And it was _wonderful. _

And then, as quickly as she had gone, she suddenly _was _once again. She was standing where she had been, next to the Doctor, only now they were in the main, modern control room.

"Yes." The Doctor continued on as if nothing had happened. "I mean, you could do that, but it just won't work. Hardwired failsafe. Living things in rooms that are deleted are automatically deposited in the main control room. But thanks for the lift!"

"We are in your universe now, Doctor." House seemed unfazed. "Why should it matter to me in which room you die? I can kill you just as easily here as anywhere. Fear me. I've killed hundreds of Time Lords."

"Fear _me._" The Doctor countered solemnly with an edge of danger. "I've killed all of them. Yeah, you're right, you've completely won. Oh, you can kill us in oodles of really inventive ways but before you do kill us allow me and my friends the Poet, and Amy and Rory and Alistair, to congratulate you on being an absolutely worthy opponent."

He started clapping and sidled over to Amy and made her stand up and clap as well. "Congratulations!" She said, trying to be convicting. The Poet, applauding as well, elbowed Alistair and he joined them.

"Yep, you've defeated us, me and my lovely friends here and last but definitely not least the TARDIS Matrix herself." The Doctor went on, stopping his odd applause. "A living consciousness you _ripped _out of this very control room and locked up into a human body and look at her!"

"Doctor, she stopped breathing." Rory said. The Poet's TARDIS leaned down and kissed her forehead.

"Enough!" House snapped. "That is enough."

"No, it's never enough." The Doctor said immediately. "You forced the TARDIS into a body so she'd burn out safely a very long way from this control room. A flesh body can't hold a TARDIS Matrix and live. Look at her body, House."

"And you think I should mourn her?" House asked a little disbelievingly.

"No. I think you should be very, very careful what you let back into this control room." Idris's mouth opened and rivers of gold spilled from her, swirling around the room. "You took her from her home. But now she's back in the box again . . . and she's _free._" The sparkling streams whipped around the console in great shimmering lengths, breaking off into corridors and splitting into tendrils of auriferous, paper-thin energy that circled up to the ceiling.

"Ow!" House grunted. "Doctor, stop this! Agh!"

"Look at my girl, look at her go!" The Doctor grinned and spun around, arms out to indicate the soul of the TARDIS taking back her home. "_Bigger on the inside! _You see, House? That's your problem. Size of a planet but inside you're just, so, _small._"

"Make it stop! Ah!" House yelled.

"Finish him off, girl." The Doctor instructed lowly, turning to face the console as the room returned to its normal, golden state. House's yells of pain and fear faded away until finally, there was silence. Idris' body was gone, leaving the Poet's TARDIS kneeling dejectedly next to nothing.

"Doctor? Are you there?" A glowing, ephemeral projection of Idris was hovering behind the Time Lord, looking nowhere. Her body glowed golden, tiny sparkles coming off of her. "It's so very dark in here."

"I'm here." The Doctor answered softly, directing her gaze down to him.

"I've been looking for a word." Idris told him. "A big, complicated word, but so sad. I've found it now."

"What word?" The Doctor whispered, almost apprehensively.

"Alive." Idris breathed. "I'm _alive._"

"Alive isn't sad." The other five in the TARDIS watched the exchange, standing back from them like something was preventing them from getting closer.

"It's sad when it's over." Idris said quietly. "I'll always be here. But this was when we talked . . . and now even that has come to an end. There's something I didn't get to say to you."

"Goodbye." The Doctor looked away in sorrow.

"No. I just wanted to say . . . hello." Idris smiled, her voice wavering as she held back tears. "Hello, Doctor. It's so very, very nice to meet you."

"Please, I don't want you to . . ." The Doctor was close to crying as well.

He stepped back as Idris dissipated with a bright light and the sound of the TARDIS, and, very faintly so it was almost inaudible, a whispered "I love you." The lighting went back to normal, and the centre tower in the console moved up and down to signify the TARDIS drifting. The Poet took his hand and squeezed to offer her sympathy, wiping a little tear from her cheek. The Doctor sniffed and tried to be cool as always, but it didn't matter. There wasn't a dry eye in the room.

-o-

The Doctor was sitting in a swing under the console, his jacket off somewhere and big goggles on as her peered up at the extensive amount of cables hanging down into the underneath of the main lobby. The Poet was on the other side, wearing some goggles of her own and walking around to test the hanging bits of wire that protruded from the cables and inspect the centre tower for fluxes in the newly installed firewall.

"How's it going down there?" Rory called, coming down the ramp to lean against the railing. Amy and Alistair followed, looking at the Time Lords working away. The Poet's TARDIS was in the "landing zone" where it usually sat, as it was now near becoming box-y again and it getting hard for him to walk.

"Just putting a firewall around the Matrix. Almost done." The Doctor informed them.

"Are you going to make her talk again?" Amy asked.

"Can't."

"Why not? The Poet talks to her TARDIS all the time." Alistair supplied, getting a nod of agreement from Rory.

"It's space-y wace-y, isn't it?" Amy said knowingly.

"Mine's a little different, sonic frequencies and long-term telekinetic messaging allows for transfer of short thoughts and messages." The Poet carefully, very carefully twisted a couple wires together.

"Well actually, it's because the Time Lords discovered that if you take an eleventh-dimensional Matrix and fold it into a mechanical, then—" The Doctor tried to answer, but Rory touched a couple cables together and they sparked violently with a short but loud whistle that made the Time Lord and Lady jump.

"Yes, it's space- wace-y!" They both snapped.

"Sorry. At the end, she was talking. She kept repeating something. I don't know what it meant." Rory told them, leaning forward with his arms up on part of a support for the flooring.

"What was it?" The Doctor wrestled his rather goofy goggles off to look at Rory.

"'The only water in the forest is the river'. She said we'd need to know that someday. It doesn't make sense, does it?"

"Not yet. You okay?"

"No." Rory admitted. "I watched her die. I shouldn't let it get to me but it does. I'm a nurse."

"Letting it get to you—you know what that's called? Being alive. Best thing there is. Being alive right now, that's all that counts." The Doctor put his goggles back on. "Nearly finished. Two more minutes, then we're off. The Eye of Orion is restful, if you like restful. I can never really get the hang of restful. What do you think, dear? Where shall we take the kids this time?" He grinned up at the console through the glass.

"Look at you pair." Amy smiled. "It's always you and her, isn't it? Long after the rest of us have gone. A boy and his box, off to see the universe."

"Well, you say that as if it's a bad thing." The Doctor said. "But honestly it's the best thing there is." He looked back up to the wiring. "House deleted all the bedrooms. I should make you two a new bedroom. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Rory hesitated, and leaned over to whisper to Amy, who spoke up. "Okay, Doctor, this time could we lose the bunk beds?"

"Nah, bunk beds are cool. It's a bed . . . with a ladder! You can't beat that!" The Doctor waved his hands to prove his point. The three companions looked at each other, and back to the Doctor. The Poet gave him a little nudge as she walked around the tower. "It's _your _room. Up the stairs, keep going 'til you find it. Off you pop!"

The Ponds started off, but Rory stopped. "Doctor, do _you _have a room?" Amy came by and dragged him off before the Doctor could answer. Alistair meandered off as well, going to chat with the Poet's TARDIS while he waited for him to turn back.

"All secure around here." The Poet called over to the Doctor, snapping her goggles back on top of her head. She tapped a couple intertwined wires to make sure they were safe.

"Right!" He hopped out of his swing, stumbling on the concave floor of the underneath to stand next to her. "Sonic level . . . five? No, six." They pointed at the tower and their screwdrivers hummed on the same frequency. The pair held the position until an encouraging whirring went up through the console as the firewall came up.

"Good, should be working now, yeah?" The Poet put her sonic back in her pocket, walking back up to the surface of the console. In the corner sat a shiny, slightly antique wardrobe. She smiled and blew a kiss to it.

"If something blows up in the next few minutes, no. But I'm _pretty_ sure it's all set up." The Doctor said, tapping a few commands into the console. He slowed, looking at the blinking panels pensively. After a moment, he lowered his voice. "Are you there? Can you hear me?" He shook his head. I'm a silly old . . . okay, Eye of Orion, or wherever we need to go."

They both saw what happened next. The Doctor looked over to the launch lever, ready to pull it, and it yanked down on it's own, jerking the time machine into motion.

The Poet looked up with wide eyes at the Doctor, and they both grinned. The latter bounced up giddily, laughing. "Hello!" He spun around the console, hugging the Poet. "Whoo-hoo!"


	25. Meanwhile in the TARDIS

_I can't get chapter 25 out before the premiere, so I'm going to start this series of "Meanwhile in the TARDIS" mini-chapters to tide me over. Think of it as a gift! :D These can for simplicity's sake only be between episodes, so here's one! Also, the quotes will only be from songs. :3_

_To clarify, these are in fact canon._

_W'P_

"_And we're off to the races, places/Ready, set the gate is down and now we're goin' in/To Las Vegas chaos, Casino Oasis, honey it is time to spin/Boy you're so crazy, baby, I love you forever not maybe."_

_-o-_

"Duck!" Alistair dropped to his knees without even thinking at the Poet's yelp. A loud clang of metal on tile smashed a bit past his head on the wall behind him. He straightened up and looked at the bowl of custard oozing down the wall, and at the Poet on the other side of the room, looking guilty.

"Sorry." She said with a little shrug. "Tripped."

"You tripped." He pointed between the bowl and her, several metres apart. "And _threw _your food?"

"I _really _tripped. Over my feet. Don't look at me like that, at least it didn't hit you."

"What are we even here for?" Alistair handed her the ceramic bowl and plate she wanted, and jumped up to sit on the island in the kitchen.

"I have been told by a certain Doctor I could name that fish fingers are much better with the custard." She explained, serving the breaded sticks onto the plate and scraping the custard off the wall into the bowl as best she could.

"That's disgusting." Alistair's lip curled as the Poet experimentally dipped a fish finger in the bowl and ate it. She nodded, smiling, and did the same to another.

"Ahhh." She said, getting a stubborn shake of a ginger head.

"Never, ever, ever, in my life, will I ever, ever, ev—" The Poet poked his belly, and he involuntarily giggled. Realising her plan, her tried to close his mouth, but he found himself munching on the odd food. He made a face, then stopped and chewed a couple times thoughtfully.

"Okay," He concluded. "That's actually not bad."

"Right! Now, if I could only convince you how good peanut butter and pickles work, I would be happy."

"Ugh!" They laughed, eating their adopted snack and poking fun while thye drifted in deep space.

-O-

The Poet peeked out the door of her TARDIS, glancing around the control room of the Doctor's own. She crept into the room, quietly shutting the door behind her with a gentle click. She sniffed the air and tilted her head as though listening. Alistair had kidnapped her old hat again and she'd be damned if she didn't find it. The Poet snuck toward the console. It was like that hat was always near, but never near enough.

"Ah!"

"Woah!"

The Poet almost literally bumped into the Doctor as she reached the console, they both jumping back in surprise with sonics out in defence. After comprehending who they were, they both chuckled and put away their sonic devices.

"Have you seen a hat around here?" The Poet asked him, looking around. "Black, bowler, comfy, I wore it a lot last time round."

"Ah, no, 'friad not. Where's it gone?" The Doctor looked to the panel on his left and pushed an orange button.

"Alistair kidnapped it again. No idea where he put it, I'm pretty sure it's in here. Where are Amy and Rory?"

"Sleeping in their _not _bunk beds. Want help with the, er, hat?"

"Yeah, actually." The Poet smiled. "How about this. Race in the TARDIS, first one who finds the hat gets to decide the prize." She held out her hand.

"Ha, ha!" The Doctor laughed and shook her hand, nodding. "Yes, games! Love a good race. Okay, when should we . . ." He trailed off as the Poet turned and jumped over the banister with a bark of laughter, already bolting down a corridor. "What!" He cried after her, followed by footsteps in a different direction.

The Poet laughed, tearing down the hall. She sniffed down a corridor and doubled back with a screech from her trainers. After following it all the way to the end, she found it was a dead end and stopped, taking a breath. "Doctor, you . . ." She muttered and turned around again. "Help me out here." She said to the ceiling, speaking to the TARDIS.

The race continued on, the Poet actually learning her way around the TARDIS a bit better. At one point she and the Doctor intersected, saying nothing but giving each other a quick cheeky smirk before continuing on their ways.

The Poet was jogging down a corridor a good way from the control room, nothing too remarkable. She sniffed again and stopped in her tracks. A few feet ahead of her, her old bowler hat was sitting propped against the wall. She grinned and dove forward, skidding back on her heels like a baseball player to scoop up her hat and pop it on her head.

"Got it!" She exclaimed victoriously, and started running back to the control room.

The TARDIS must have labyrinth-ed her halls around to lead the Doctor back to the control room, because he arrived shortly after with a defeated expression. "Okay," He threw out his arms a little as he walked, slightly short of breath, up to the console. "What's it to be?"

"Hm." The Poet thought for a moment. "I only want _one_ . . ." She grinned. "Kiss."

"What?" The Doctor considered the offer for a beat. "Well, all right."

"Ooh, really?" The Poet grinned. "Didn't think you'd agree, actually."

"But just the one." The Doctor clarified not-too-seriously. He leaned forward and gave her a little peck on the lips.

The Poet huffed and crossed her arms. "Well, that isn't even fair." She tapped his nose as she walked past to her TARDIS, smiling. "But don't worry. I'll get you back for that one later." She winked and hopped into the wardrobe. "Ta, and thanks for the help."


	26. Only Off By A Few Time Tracks

_ULTRA SHORT CHAPTER AHEAD ;~;_

_I deleted the last chapter because the boredom would have killed me. I was going to do "Waters of Mars," but there were some consistency issues I had to consider, so we're doing a more fun episode! I'm thrilled to write this, so enjoy! _

_W'P_

_P.S. I would want Gemma Arterton to be cast for the Poet in this incarnation, maybe Eva Green too but I like Gemma's face. :3_

"_There comes a point in a relationship when you realize that you trust someone enough to let them keep their secrets." -Robert Brault_

_-o-_

"Upwards and onwards, Alistair!" The Poet wrenched a lever down in her TARDIS and tapped her fingers across buttons like a piano. "'The game's afoot: Follow your spirit, and upon this charge cry—'"

"'_God for Harry, England and Saint George_!'" She and Alistair finished the verse together and laughed.

"So, where to now?" The ginger asked and kicked his feet up on the console only to get them smacked back down as she jogged around. "Hawaii? Australia? Mars? The Horsehead Nebula?"

"Mars! Let's do Mars. It's lovely this time of time." The Poet flipped a couple switches and pulled the launch. "Lovely. Now, maybe if I…" She dialed in a few commands, took three measured steps to her left, clapped her hands once, and executed a complicated procedure of twisting key-like things, pressing buttons and honked a horn.

The TARDIS suddenly jerked and sent them tumbling. The engines roared below their feet. Alarmed, the Poet hurriedly pumped the loose launch lever up and down. "Poet, what's happening?!" Alistair held onto his seat for all he was worth, shielding his face from a bang of sparks from the centre console.

"I miscalculated!" She cried back. "Hold on, we're jumping a time track!"

"No way!" Alistair laughed nervously, waving a hand for balance as he stood. "We've jumped time tracks before. What—gah!" He dodged her dashing past to try and regulate things. "This is _not _just jumping a track!"

"It's a really _bad _one!" The Poet slammed her palm on a big button and turned a crank. "More like…three tracks! Three tracks, and a bicycling path, and two lanes of a freeway."

The machine shuddered to a stop. All was quiet for a few seconds. Alistair broke the silence by sighing deeply. The Poet let out a short laugh and brushed her hair back. She dashed up the stairs to the door and peeked out.

"Er, yes, well…" The Poet slowly closed the door and looked back at Alistair. "I may have missed the mark by several hundred…thousand miles…"

The human sighed and put his space suit back on its hook. "Oh, and Mars would have been really excellent, too."

"Chin up, this is just as lovely." The Poet skipped through the console room and up to her wardrobe. "Time for a costume change! Go for circa 1920, Donovan."

"Circa 1920?" He called up to her. Shuffling in the room over told her he was changing regardless. "You really missed the mark this time, Poet."

"Oh, hush," She scoffed, braiding her hair to pin it around her head like a dark brown snake. Her blue dress was the same colour as her everyday one, but in the style of a flapper's dress. The necklace was already part of her outfit. She placed a veiled hat on her head and pulled the black fishnet over her eyes. "We're going to a party, so behave."

"I hope there's champagne," Alistair muttered. He emerged from his dressing room in a classic suit and jacket, complete with beige fedora to clash spectacularly with his ginger hair and what could now probably be considered a beard. As he straightened his jacket, a thought seemed to occur to him. "Poet, how are we getting in?"

"Oh, you know me. I've a way with words. Let's hop on, then." She beamed at him, and they trotted down to the door.

The TARDIS had changed into a fountain of polished white marble. There were little carvings of angels and pepper pots, a tall, slender figure with no face and a crown, a square with a little lump inside, and all manner of other strange things. A bowtie held an inexplicably high position, inside a rectangle. The Poet and Alistair climbed out of the crystal water, but were impossibly dry.

The Time Lady flicked out her sonic and scanned around. She tested the air and knelt to touch the grass. "I'd guess…1926. My gut says December, but…"

"If this is December, sign me up." Alistair said appraisingly.

The weather was indeed fantastic, balmy and fine. The sun shone down on them as they stood in the yard of a large manor, almost a mansion. They seemed to have appeared right in the middle of the party, but no one looked twice at the sudden fountain. Perception filters really are brilliant, the Poet mused to herself. No one was outside yet, so she presumed they were all inside to be announced into the yard.

"Let's introduce ourselves, shall we?" She suggested, and they walked briskly off to the house.

They slipped in the back door and were confronted by a mix of characters. Both men and woman stood about, clearly waiting for the party to begin. Most, if not all of them, had drinks in their hands.

A man who looked like a butler stalked up to them. "Excuse me, who are you? How did you get in?"

"I'm the Poet, and this is Sir Alistair Donovan of…London." She nodded at them and, taking an almost literal page from the Doctor's book, pulled a piece of psychic paper from her pocket. "Don't worry, we were invited."

The butler examined the blank paper. "Very well, Miss…Poet. Right this way. The guests will be taking cocktails in the garden."

"Brilliant!" The Poet practically radiated good cheer. This was the kind of thing she loved to do. Going different places, seeing the sights, taking in time. She loved the Doctor to death, but sometimes it was good to just lay back and relax.

"May I announce the Colonel Hugh Curbishley, the Honourable Roger Curbishley." The butler introduced the first two guests into the yard, a young man pushing an older man in a wheelchair. There was a few minutes' pause.

"Oh, I think we're next." The Poet said, and they were.

"Lady Poet and Sir Alistair Donovan." The butler announced. They walked out into the sunny garden, which to the Poet's sensitive nose smelled lightly of mint and lemons. The serving staff were all already out there, as well as the Curbishleys and the lady of the house. A skinny man in a smart suit and a rusty-haired woman in a period dress stood outside as well. They were all gathered in a group, talking and watching the new arrivals.

"Hello there!" The Poet greeted. "I'm the Poet and this is Alistair."

"Nice to meet you, I'm the Doctor and this is Donna." The suited man held out his hand and the Poet, already halfway to shaking it, quickly pulled back.

"Oh, the Doctor, quite, um…" She cleared her throat and stepped back. "Charmed."

"Excuse me," Lady Eddison butted in. "You two do have invitations, don't you?"

"Oh, yes, we've been planning for ages, ever since we got the invitation." The Poet flashed her the "invitation" as quickly as she could. "Don't you recall, we met at that art gallery the other month."

"Ah, yes, so nice to see you again, Poet." Lady Eddison said warmly, though a little distantly, like she was just saying that to stall her until she could remember if they'd ever actually met.

"A drink, madam? Sir?" A footman asked them.

"Your most alcoholic wine, good sir." Alistair said, with exaggerated class.

"A lemonade, thank you." The Poet said quickly. She quickly made sure she wasn't holding the psychic paper or screwdriver for whatever reason.

"Miss Robina Redmond." The butler announced. A young woman with dark hair strutted in, confident to a fault.

"She's the absolute hit of the social season. A must. Miss Redmond." Eddison said to the four of them now there.

"Spiffing to meet you at last, my lady." The girl greeted.

The next guest was announced, a blond reverend named Arnold Golightly. He had a soft-around-the-edges, almost childlike face. "Ah, Reverend, how are you?" Eddison greeted friendlily. "I heard about the church last Thursday night, those ruffians breaking in."

"You apprehended them, I hear." Hugh Curbishly added.

"As the Christian fathers taught me, we must forgive them their trespasses. Quite literally." Golightly said humbly.

"Some of these young boys deserve a decent thrashing." Roger Curbishly said.

"Couldn't agree more, sir." The footman from earlier agreed, and the two passed each other a suggestive glance. Alistair coughed on his wine, and the Poet patted him on the back.

"Typical," Donna muttered, looking between the three of them. "All the decent men are on the other bus."

"Or Time Lords." The Doctor added quietly. It was the Poet's turn to choke on her drink. He passed her an odd look, suspicious, but said nothing.

Seeing an opportunity, Alistair pulled the Poet aside, his eyes still watering. "Excuse me, Poet, but what the hell is going on?" He wheezed.

"We jumped a time track," She replied, keeping her voice so low it was hard to hear. "That's a younger Doctor. He doesn't know me yet."

"But you're Time Lords. Can't you, I don't know, smell each other?"

"Smell each other? Why would anybody want to do that?"

"…"

"Oh, you mean if we would be able to tell just at this distance?"

"Yes, of course that's what I mean! Jesus, Poet…"

"No, no. At one time we could, but it's been years and years. It's gotten a lot harder to do that with only two of us. Although, if I touched him, even through clothing he would know right away who I was. So let's try to avoid that."

"Wait. When we got to Alfava Metraxis, and met the Doctor there, it was the first time you had met, right? So, what happens now? Won't all of history be changed by you two now knowing each other centuries before meeting or something?"

"Not exactly. Or maybe, yes. I'm not sure. Right now I'm making it up as I go along. But we're both Time Lords…at the end of this, I could probably…"

The Poet stopped talking as the gathered guests began to applaud politely. A blond woman, with a small face and pointed nose—though she was not unattractive—entered the garden. "Oh, no. Please don't. Thank you, Lady Eddison. Honestly, there's no need." She strode over to Donna and shook her hand. "Agatha Christie."

"What about her?" Donna asked, the dear.

"That's me."

"No!" Donna gasped. "You're kidding!"

"Agatha Christie!" The Doctor jumped in and shook her hand. "I was just talking about you the other day. I said, "I bet she's brilliant." I'm the Doctor and this is Donna. Oh, I love your stuff! What a mind! You fool me every time. Well…almost every time. Well…once or twice. Well…once. But it was a good once."

"You make a rather unusual couple." Agatha commented. They immediately and quickly denied any such implications, getting a knowing smirk from her. "Obviously not—no wedding ring."

"Oh, you don't miss a trick." The Doctor grinned.

"They, on the other hand," The author turned to the Poet and Alistair. "Are."

"I'm the Poet and this is Alistair, and no, we're not married, but Agatha Christie, what a thrill!" The Poet exclaimed, shaking her hand. "Honestly, you're brilliant."

"Ah, I see now," Agatha observed, looking between the delicate silver diamond on the Poet's finger and the modest gold band on Alistair's. "The rings don't match."

"Isn't she brilliant?" The Poet gushed, turning to grin at Alistair. "Fantastic!"

"Oh, stop." Agatha waved her humbly off. "But I must say, you have very unique eyes! Is it genetic or artificial?"

It took the Poet a second to remember that her eyes were two different colours. "Oh! Ah, yes, I suppose you could say it's genetic. Long story, very long story, and rather boring to boot."

"You'll have to tell me some day." Agatha smiled politely.

Lady Eddison plucked over to them, looking equally happy at her special guest. "Mrs Christie, I'm so glad you could come. I'm one of your greatest followers. I've read all six of your books. Uh, is, uh, Mr Christie not joining us?"

"Is he needed? Can't a woman make her own way in the world?" Agatha replied, a tad coldly.

"Don't give my wife ideas." Hugh chuckled from his wheelchair.

Alistair turned to the Poet and gave her a little elbow to the ribs, grinning. "Agatha Christie, huh? Not bad."

"Ha ha, right!" They high-fived. "Not bad at all, Donovan! And Mars is boring anyway." In the corner of her eye, she saw the Doctor looking at a newspaper with Donna. "What's that, then?"

The Doctor looked up. "Oh, it's nothing much. Just checking the headline, you know."

The Poet glanced at the date of the paper, and nodded slightly. "Right." She turned back to Alistair, who raised a ginger brow.

"What was that about?" He asked, throwing back what remained of his wine.

"Today is the day Agatha Christie disappears." The Poet whispered. "It's all very strange. She will be missing for ten days. Her car is found by the side of the lake. At the end of ten days, she appears outside a hotel in Harrogut. She doesn't remember it, or claims she doesn't, and never speaks of it again."

"Huh!"

A small woman in maid's clothes came running from the house, screaming, and interrupted their conversation. "The professor! The library! Murder! Murder!"

The Doctor and Poet were off in a flash. They fumbled through the complicated, shiny, wooden halls of extravagant decorations and candelabras. The library was on the second story. It was a small room by comparison, though the walls were crowded with books both large and small. A fireplace was dying in the hearth. At the centre of the room, in the middle of the rug, was a man's body. He was older, facedown, sprawled out awkwardly as though he had only fallen and had not yet gotten up. A piece of lead piping was on the floor next to him.

They entered the library first, followed by their companions and Lady Eddison, and then the butler, Greeves. "Oh, my goodness." The latter stated.

"Fan-bloody-tastic." Alistair muttered sourly.

The Doctor knelt by the body and inspected it. "Bashed on the head. Blunt instrument." He tapped the professor's watch. "Watch broke as he fell, time of death was quarter past four."

He stood and moved away to shuffle through the many papers on the late man's desk. The Poet knelt where he had been and scanned it very quickly, so fast that the Doctor didn't have time to look back before it was back in her pocket. Alistair squatted next to her and lowered his voice.

"Poet, let's get out now." He whispered. "I don't like this."

"It's murder, Donovan, you're not supposed to like it." She muttered back.

"And this is the _Doctor._" He hissed. "Wherever he goes, trouble follows, and right now I like the other Doctor's kind of trouble more. You fancy him, he fancies you, I like him, and people aren't being _murdered_."

"Lower your voice." The Poet said quickly, with a glance at the Doctor. "You would be surprised what Time Lords can hear when they try."

At that time, the rest of the guests tried pushing their way through into the library. They both stood to talk with the others who were in the room. "We should call the police." Agatha said shakily.

"You don't have to." The Doctor took his psychic paper from his pocket. "Chief Inspector Smith from Scotland Yard. Miss Noble is the plucky young girl who helps me out."

"I'm the Doctor's associate." The Poet jerked a thumb at him. She couldn't show her own police rank, though she very much liked doing it. Women weren't police officers in 1926. "And Sir Donovan is my sarcastic companion."

"I say!" Lady Eddison gasped.

"Mrs Christie is right." The Doctor went on, with a raised-eyebrow glance at the Poet. "Go to the sitting room. I—we will question each of you in turn."

"Come along." Agatha ushered everyone out. "Do as the Doctor says. Keep the room undisturbed." The room emptied but for the two Time Lords and their companions.

"My associate?" The Doctor asked.

"Oh my, yes." The Poet said, but didn't really want to answer the question directly. "Yes, why not. You seem the sociable sort. Donovan and I are charismatic to a fault."

He gave her an odd look, that suspicious one again, but didn't dig any deeper. His eyebrow was raised so high it was almost in his hairline. He lay down on the floor, on his stomach, to investigate the body further. Donna started talking to him about being "the plucky young girl" who helps him out, and the Poet looked over the scene with her arms crossed.

"What are you thinking?" Alistair asked, edging over to her.

"My sonic turned something up." She replied quietly.

"Oh yeah? What's that?" He was still holding his wine glass.

"Whatever it was, it was morphic."

"Morphic? So, not human, then?"

"Oh, not human by a long shot. Not even a few planets close to human."

"So the killer is an alien."

"Yeah." She watched the Doctor pick a glob of something from a crack in the floor.

"Where are they? Is there a Silurian hiding in the shrubbery? I mean, we would notice an alien walking around."

"'Course we would, that's the point. This one's clever, it's hiding in human form. Could be any one of them out there."

"That narrows it down. This really takes the cake, though, as far as murder mysteries go. Don't look at me like that. Here we are, in 1920-whatever, with Agatha Christie on the day she goes missing, with an alien killer on the loose, and the two lead investigators are the last two Time Lords in existence. Honestly!"


	27. Detox

_Oh man I just love writing Alistair so much. I also really love how his character is developing. I love him long time. _

_W'P_

"_Tell me your secrets, and ask me your questions; oh, let's go back to the start. Running in circles, coming up tails, heads on a science apart." –Coldplay, "The Scientist."_

_-o-_

"Next thing you'll be telling me it's like the Murder on the Orient Express and everyone did it." Donna said as their little group stepped out into the hall. Their investigation of the crime scene had yielded nothing but the morphic residue. The Doctor's suspicion of the Poet was growing by the minute, and she was trying to stay as far from him as physically possible.

Agatha Christie was waiting for them in the hall, and looked up. "Murder on the Orient Express?"

"Oh, yeah. One of your best." Donna gushed.

"But not yet." The Doctor said under his breath.

"Marvellous idea, though." Agatha mused, thinking.

"Yeah, tell you what—Copyright: Donna Noble."

"Anyway," The Doctor cut in. "Agatha and I will question suspects. Donna, you search the bedrooms, look for clues, take Alistair with you. Poet, you…" He waved a finger at her, frowning. "Just…follow them for now."

"Right," The Time Lady huffed. She liked _her _Doctor more. The bowtie one with the easy smile and the fish fingers and custard. "Follow the humans. That's a new one."

"What was that?"

"Nothing! Come along, Alistair." The Poet jerked her thumb up the stairs.

"Actually, I think Donna and I are leading." The ginger countered pluckily, giving her a cheeky smile. She glowered at him—he was enjoying it way too much for her pride.

The Doctor held out a large, comical, Sherlock Holmes magnifying glass to Donna. "Is that for real?" She asked incredulously.

"Go on. You're ever so plucky." He gave her a look to match Alistair's and she took the glass with no lack of sarcasm.

With the humans leading, the three made their way up the stairs. The house was classy and nice, with lots of polished wood. It was reminiscent of the Poet's TARDIS, only with less taste. They looked around at the top landing and silently split up. Donna went to the left, giving them a wave with the glass as she did. As they shuffled down the tight, dimly lit hall, trying not to trip over the runner, Alistair cast a suspicious sideways glance at his friend.

"So…what are you thinking?" He asked. It was a teasing question, but there was also concern. He knew that she was feeling _something, _though couldn't quite get down to the bottom of those complex Gallifreyan emotions. For him it was like swimming through syrup. It was kind of like that for the Poet, too.

"Well, that depends. What do you want to know?" She opened the first door in the hall and peeked in. It was empty, of course. All the guests were downstairs being questioned.

"What do you think of the Doctor? This Doctor, I mean, not the one you're all flirty with." He followed her in and knelt to look under the bed. "You seem…" He tried to find a word for her behaviour. "Uneasy around him."

The Poet chewed the inside of her mouth, flipping out her sonic and scanning around the bed sheets and bedside table. "It's a bit hard to describe. Time Lords have inherent telepathy with other Time Lords. Back in the day it was brilliantly helpful so we wouldn't go running into ourselves."

"Running into yourselves? Oh, right, because you're…"

"Time travelling. Travelling in pairs or more was easier in case we came across trouble, not to mention TARDISes typically need six pilots. Say we landed on Earth in this time period," She pointed to the floor. "And started gallivanting about. If we sensed that we were close enough to each other, only the other us were us from the future, then we could find the other us or avoid them. Generally we would avoid them, but if they found us first by accident, then we could simply do a nice little thing and they'd forget they ever saw us."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Alistair stood and waved his hands. "Stop. Whoa. You can mess with Time Lord's memories, brilliant, whatever. We shouldn't even be here. What are we doing? Let's go. Now. Let's just hop back onto our own time track and be on our way. You can go back to the normal Doctor and I can go back to _not _feeling like you're going to go into a PMT fit at any moment."

"That's not how it works…"

"You know what I mean. We aren't supposed to be here."

"Famous last words."

"Poet!" He snapped. Too surprised to say anything, she quieted down. "This is serious! I've been with you long enough to know that things could get seriously bullocksed up by being in the wrong time. So don't you brush this off." His voice softened. "It's okay to run away sometimes."

"Not for me." She returned coldly. "Not anymore."

There was a long, heavy pause. "Right." Alistair finally sighed, clapping his hands together. "Well, this room is clearly empty. Let's keep on." They left the room, keeping things as close to how they had looked as possible. "Do you still love him?"

The hall fell silent. The Poet tossed her screwdriver between her hands and tucked it back in her pocket. "I…" She sighed and gestured for them to keep walking. "We change when we regenerate. Whoever this is, it's not who I'm used to. Something's wrong with him."

"Wrong? What do you mean?"

"He's off, somehow. He's still alone. If my estimates are right on how far back we are, it's bad. It's very bad. It was bad for me, too." Her voice trailed off so she was talking mostly to herself. "Worse than you can imagine."

Alistair faltered. He seemed unsure of what to say. Fortunately, they came upon Donna, who was looking at her hand through the magnifying glass. She jumped when she saw them. "Oh!" She laughed. "Didn't see you there."

"Hi, I don't think we've met formally." The Poet was back to herself for the moment, smiling and sociable. She held out her hand. "I'm the Poet. This is Alistair."

"Yeah, good to meet you." Donna shook her hand and smiled conspiratorially. "The Poet, eh? Like the Doctor? You two from the same town or something?"

"You could say that." The Time Lady said. "You found anything yet?"

"Not a thing. This place is as empty as a library." They continued on in a group. The Poet cringed internally at the insult to her favorite room of any house or planet. "What about you two?"

"No, nothing. It all seems perfectly normal, so far." She sniffed the air. "Something or someone is smelling up the place, though."

"Don't look at me." Alistair said, putting his hands up.

"The Doctor does that." Donna commented offhandedly, brightly.

"Does what?"

"Sniffs like that. Just sniffs. He did it earlier to tell…" She trailed off and frowned back at the other woman. "Er, never mind."

Alistair blinked and fell back to talk to the Poet. "What would he do that for?" He whispered.

"Same as me: to tell what year it is." She responded.

The conversation's impending danger was ended when they came to the door at the end of the hall. Donna tried the knob, but found it locked. "Well so much for that." She huffed.

"You won't find anything in there." A voice behind them made them all jump and turn. It was the butler, Greeves.

"Why not?" The Poet slipped her sonic from her pocket and scanned him, keeping the tech behind her leg. "Why's it locked?"

"Lady Eddison commands it so." He answered haughtily.

"And I command it otherwise." Donna said. She really was just as plucky as the Doctor had said. "Scotland Yard, pip pip. Why's it locked in the first place?"

"Many years ago, when my father was butler to the family, Lady Eddison returned from India with malaria." Greeves answer as he unlocked the door. "She locked herself in this room for six months until she recovered. Since then, this room has remained...undisturbed."

The Poet stepped forward first on habit, pushing the door open. It creaked on its hinges. The sonic sang lightly in the dim room, a little blue sprite, but she put it away. There was nothing in there. A square beam of white sun that came in through the window, over which hung thin drapes lit the room. There were a few shelves, a bureau, and a neatly made bed with a teddy bear. Everything was covered in a thick coat of dust. Cobwebs clung to a few corners and small spaces.

"There's nothing in here." Greeves said.

"Thank you for showing your talent for stating the obvious. How long has this room been empty?" The Poet strode unceremoniously across the floor, kicking up dust. She ran her finger across the taunt bedspread and rubbed it with her thumb.

"Forty years." Greeves glowered coldly at her.

"Why would she seal it off?" Donna pondered. "All right, I need to investigate. You just…butler off." Greeves left, and Alistair shut the door after them.

"Well, nothing seems…" The Poet dabbed the dust-covered finger on her tongue and smacked her lips. "Terribly off. There's still that morphic smell about, though. Quite distracting, that. Well!" She spun and clapped her hands. "Let's search for clues!"

They padded about the room, cooking up a fair storm until the room was almost foggy. Alistair opened the bureau, and it screeched in protest. "Empty." He informed them. "You know, maybe it's nothing. Maybe Eddison just wanted this place sealed up. Like, preserving memories or something."

"Maybe." The Poet picked up the teddy and squished its belly, peering into its eyes.

A faint buzzing sounded near the window that Donna was looking around by, and they looked to it. "1926, they've still got bees." She reached up to move the curtains. The buzzing became louder and more insistent. "Oh, what a noise! Okay, busy bee, I'll let you out. Hold on. I shall find you with my amazing powers of detection." She put the magnifying glass up to her eye and opened the drapes.

Outside the window was a wasp larger than a human. It was shiny and smooth, its stripes clearly defined. Long hairs bristled on its foot-long abdomen. Its wings were a silver blur behind it. Antennae swivelled angrily at the glass, and knobby legs dangled uselessly. A long, curved stinger arched from the end of its thorax. In one swift move, it lurched forward and smashed through the window, scattering broken glass across the room.

Donna screamed. "That's impossible! Doctor!"

The wasp jerked around the room, hovering over the bed and next to the Poet, who was marvelling at it. "Look at you, you beautiful thing!"

The insect lunged at her, missing her by an inch as Alistair pulled her aside. "Poet, come on!"

"I just want to talk to it!" She pleaded, but he tugged her away.

Donna held up the magnifying glass to face the wasp. The sun from the window refracted through it and burned the thing. It screeched in pain, and the three of them bolted out the door. She slammed it behind them and screamed for the Doctor again. The stinger stabbed through the door, missing her but lodging in the wood. At nearly the same moment, the Doctor and Agatha came running up the stairs.

"Doctor!" Donna exclaimed. "There is a giant…wasp!"

"What do you mean, giant wasp?" He asked.

"I mean a wasp, that's giant!" She snapped.

"It's only a silly little insect." Agatha scoffed.

"No, no," The Poet lamented at the loss of the insect. She was crouched by the stinger that had punctured the door and was running a gentle finger up and down the smooth surface. It was black and tough, like a beetle shell. "Look at this sting."

"Let me see!" The Doctor threw open the door and ran inside. He looked out the broken window. "It's gone. Buzzed off."

"But that's fascinating!" Agatha was staring at the stinger.

"D-d-don't touch it. Don't touch it. Let me." The Doctor hurried back over. He took a vial and stopper from his jacket. From the stinger he took a sample and observed it. "Giant wasps…well, there are tons of amorphous insectivorous lifeforms but…none in this galactic vector."

"I think I understood some of those words. Enough to know you're completely potty." The author said skeptically.

"Lost its sting, though. That makes it defenseless." Donna pointed out.

"Oh, a morphous insect this size should grow a new one in no time." The Poet observed.

"Uh, can we return to sanity?" Agatha asked, looking between the Doctor, whose expression was painfully suspicious, and the Poet, who had put a few fingers over her lips when she realised her mistake. "There are no such things as giant wasps."

"Exactly!" The Doctor said. "So…the question is, what's it doing here?"

Leaving the question open, they turned and started back down the stairs. The Poet wrenched the giant stinger from the door and carried it lovingly with her. Alistair raised an eyebrow, and she made a face back. "What?"

"Are you just going to carry that around all day?" He asked, half grinning.

"Why not?" She said brightly. "I've plenty of keepsakes back in the TARDIS."

"Where do you keep them?" A thought seemed to occur to him and he gave her a curious look. "Poet, do you have a bedroom?"

A scream from outside saved her from answering. They ran the rest of the way down and piled outside. Lying in the grass was one of the maids. A stone gargoyle was pressing her down, clearly crushing her. The Doctor and Poet knelt by her. She lifted her head to see them, and managed to gasp one last phrase in a dry, pained voice. "The poor, little…child."

They bowed their heads in respect. Alistair ran a hand down his bearded chin and breathed out his nose. Agatha looked to be in shock. A loud buzzing made them all look up. Above them, the wasp hovered. It watched them almost curiously before circling up and away.

"There! Come on!" The Doctor beckoned to them and sprinted back into the manor.

"Well, this makes a change." Donna said dryly as they ran in circles up the multiple staircases. "There's a monster, and we're chasing it."

"Story of my life." Alistair grinned as they followed the Time Lords.

"Can't be a monster. It's a trick. They do it with mirrors." Agatha said, though didn't sound altogether confident.

The group continued running around and then up another floor, slower and more ungainly in their formal wear. At the next hall, the Doctor skid to a halt, and the Poet almost tumbled into him, wincing and flailing her arms at her sides as her nose stopped just before his back. At an arch up ahead, a large wasps' bum was poking around defensively, new stinger shiny and sharp as ever.

"By all that's holy…" Agatha breathed.

"Oh," The Doctor gasped, staring with happiness at the new life form. "But you are wonderful."

In that one half second, the Poet took a moment to glance over and smile at him. Despite everything, he was still the Doctor. And she still loved him all the same for it.

Then the wasp turned to face them. It was having trouble navigating in the cramped corridor, but looked angry. "Now, just stop there." The Doctor said. The wasp disregarded him and charged stinger-first as it had before. They dove to thr ground in a large five-person heap. The Poet had to work exceedingly hard not to get anywhere near the Doctor, and it was starting to get annoying.

"Oi! Flyboy!" Donna held up her magnifying glass, which she had inexplicably kept around. At the sight of it, the wasp lurched away, and then turned and promptly buzzed away down the way they had just come.

"Don't let it get away!" The Doctor staggered up and bounded after it. "Quick, before it reverts back to human form!" They all reached the hall with the bedrooms that the Poet and Alistair had been in earlier. "Where are you? Come on! There's nowhere to run—show yourself!"

The doors along the hall all opened, and every one of the guests leaned out of their rooms to blink confusedly at him.

"Oh, that's just cheating." The Doctor sighed.

-o-

"Do you think Agatha can help us, then?" The Poet asked.

After the incident with the wasp, and dealing with Lady Eddison's grief about Miss Chandrakala's death, the guests had all decided that it was either Agatha Christie's or the Doctor's duty to help them. Now she and him lounged in the sitting room. Agatha had gone out to the gazebo, and Donna had followed shortly after. Alistair was being rather hounded by the young Mr Davenport, and was likely trying to give him the slip.

"Oh, she's just an author." The Doctor said. He straightened the cuffs of his brown suit. "A brilliant author, no doubt, but not Scotland Yard."

"Like you?" The words were out before she could think better of it, and they were dry and knowing. He looked at her with his wide, bulging eyes and raised eyebrow.

"Yeah." He said reservedly. "Like me." The conversation lapsed into silence for a moment before he spoke again. "So who are you, then, Poet? What's your story?"

"I'm just a traveller." She said lightly, leaning back in her chair. They sat next to each other with a circular end table between them. He leaned back as well, lolling his head to look over at her. "Seeing the sights, exploring and such. I can tell you are, too. You've got that look about you."

"Ah, well. I explore a bit more than just dinner parties." The Doctor said. Despite herself, the Poet laughed.

"Yes, I suppose that you do." She waved a finger at him. "That's a nice suit. It's missing a tie, though."

"Oh," The Doctor looked down at his open neck, blinking at the change in conversation. "Yeah, well, it's just a little dinner party. Not much for ties, anyway."

"You should try a bowtie." She suggested, and smirked at his look. "Oh, yeah. Bowties are cool."

He twisted his head to his chin was almost on his shoulder, and squinted at her. "Who are you, really? You seem familiar."

The Poet shifted. This is where you separate the girls from the women. "I've got one of those faces, you know. People always think they know me."

"No, no, it's more like…" He trailed off, searching for a proper analogy, then gave up. "Huh. Never mind, then. Just my imagination."

Alistair suddenly jogged into the room, looking a little out of breath. "Oh, sorry to interrupt. Poet, you want me to go put that thing back in the…" He glanced at the Doctor and stopped himself. "Back in our automobile?"

The Poet looked down at the stinger in her hands. "No. I like having it with me. Plus it could intimidate our wasp guest if that's the case."

"You don't find it unusual that the wasp's a person and an insect?" The Doctor asked as Alistair took a seat across from them on the sofa.

"Oh, no. Gosh no. This one time, I was in this baking contest in Surrey, and right in the middle of it all, this woman's cake absolutely _exploded _and it turns out she had almost put it into the oven with a real, _living_—"

"I think that's quite enough, Poet." Alistair said quickly. He waved a flat hand back and forth over his neck in a very clear, "stop talking, you crazy alien" move.

She huffed and pursed her lips in reply. Their conversation ended as Donna and Agatha hurried back in. The latter was holding a small, black leather box like a jewelry box in her hands. She set it on the coffee table. "We found this out in the garden. Looked like somebody had tried to dispose of it out a window."

Before they could inspect it further, Greeves walked in. "Would you like any refreshments?" They impatiently ordered their drinks, and the butler left.

The Doctor reached over and opened it. The box, though small, contained several layers of small tools set in red velvet that folded out as he opened it. "Ooh, someone came tooled up…the sort of stuff a thief would use…"

"The Unicorn—he's here!" Agatha exclaimed quietly.

"The Unicorn and the wasp." The Doctor muttered.

Greeves came back with a tray. "Your drinks, ladies and gentlemen."

The Doctor thanked him, and they took their drinks. Alistair drank a considerable amount of his wine in one go. The Poet set her lemonade aside; she wasn't all that thirsty, but the Doctor took a sip of his water.

"What about the science stuff?" Agatha asked. "What did you find?"

"Hm, Vespimorph sting." The Doctor plucked the vial from his jacket and flipped it around. The goo inside was the colour and viscosity of honey. "Vespimorphs have got hives in the Silifax galaxy."

"Again you talk like Edward Lear." Agatha gave him a funny, amused look.

"For some reason, this one's behaving like a character in one of your books." He mused.

"Come on, Agatha." Donna said encouragingly. "What would Miss Marple do? She'd've overheard something vital by now because the murderer thinks she's just a harmless old lady."

"Clever idea." Agatha said. "Miss Marple—who writes those?"

"Um, copyright: Donna Noble. Add it to the list."

"Donna." The Doctor said.

"Okay, we can split the copyright." Donna compromised, with a bargaining toss of her ginger-brown head.

"No, something's inhibiting my enzymes." He said. Now it was clear he seemed frozen in his seat, gripping the arms of the hard wooden chair until his knuckles were white. He jerked forward like he'd been pulled by the lapel and yelled out. "I've been poisoned!"

"What do we do? What do we do?" Donna stressed.

Agatha gave his water a sniff. "Bitter almonds—it's cyanide. Sparkling cyanide!"

"Oh, good lord." Alistair took a large gulp of his wine.

The Doctor heaved himself from his chair and ran to the kitchen in the next room. He staggered across the room and grabbed Davenport by the front of his shirt. "Ginger beer!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I need ginger beer!" He released the boy and ran back around the island and slammed face first into the shelves. He threw them open and grabbed the ginger beer. After drinking a good amount of it, he dumped the rest over his head and tossed the bottle away.

"The gentleman's gone mad!" One of the maids exclaimed. The serving staff gathered in a corner, as though fearing what he might do next.

"I'm an expert in poisons, Doctor!" Agatha watched him in horror. "It's fatal! There's no cure!"

The Doctor spit out some of the beer in a fine, gingery mist. "Not for me. I can stimulate the inhibited enzymes into reversal. Protein! I need protein!"

"Walnuts!" The Poet grabbed the jar and practically threw it at him.

"Brilliant!" He shoved a bunch of them in his mouth and continued trying to speak.

"I can't understand you!" Donna cried. He was shaking one of his hands up and down. "How many words?" He held up a finger. "One. One word. Shake? Milk? Shake?"

"Uh, confetti!" Alistair tried. "Cocktail? Hot sauce!"

"Harvey Wallbanger?"

"_Harvey Wallbanger?" _The Doctor yelled. "How is Harvey Wallbanger one word?!"

"No!" The Poet snapped. "It's salt! He needs salt!"

Alistair made a noise of exasperation and ran to the shelves, where Donna and Agatha were also smashing about. "How's this?"

"What is it?" The Doctor gasped.

"Salt!"

"That's too salty."

"That doesn't even make any sense!" The ginger cried.

"What about this?" Agatha jumped over with a jar. The Doctor mumbled in agreement, opened it, and drank a bunch of whatever was inside.

"What is that?"

"Anchovies."

The Doctor made another motion as he vapidly chewed the little fish. His hands were out, palms to them, waving madly. "What is it? What else?" Donna almost sang. "It's a song! 'Mammy!' I don't know, 'Camptown Races'?"

"'Camptown Races'?" The Doctor managed.

"Well, all right, 'Towering Inferno.'"

"It's a shock! Look! Shock! I need a shock!"

"Okay," The Poet said. "Goodness, I sure hope you don't remember this."

All at once she reached forward and touched the Doctor for the first time. With her hands on his cheeks, she yanked him forward into a messy kiss. It wasn't exactly pleasant—he tasted like anchovies and ginger. He stumbled up from the table as gold flashed very briefly where they touched. It was like an electric burst—the instantaneous, ultra-sensitive Time Lord sense as they both felt the double heartbeat of the other. As per the predicted reaction, he grasped her shoulders to at first pull her closer, and then quickly shove her away. He threw back his head, and black smoke billowed from his mouth. When it was all gone, he groaned.

"Ah! Detox." He ran his sleeve over his mouth. "I must do that more often." He looked at the Poet as though just seeing her. "You!"

"Me." She muttered, pressing her lips together.

"We need to talk!"

"Doctor!" Agatha stared at him with wide, shocked eyes. "You are impossible!" He clicked his tongue at her. "Who are you?!"

-o-

In the hours leading up to dinner, the Doctor and Poet wandered the grounds of the manor. She explained everything to him. What he already knew, and what he didn't know. He didn't want to know his future, but that was fine. She was aware of his dislike of knowing his own future, as evident by River. He was shown her TARDIS as proof, like the "first" time.

A few tears were shed. A few laughs were had. Many hugs and handshakes were shared. But most frequently of all, angry words were shouted across the misty, pre-storm garden. The words were hurtful ones, spoken in Gallifreyan and too insulting to put to the English language. The accusations were so foul, in such bad taste and often unfair to a fault, there was no direct translation. In these fits they stood away from each other, clenched their fists, threw their hands up, stomped and slipped in the wet grass. At one point the Doctor pushed her shoulder so she fell back a step. After another half-screamed exchange, she slapped him hard across the face. Things calmed down a little more after that.

Up in the lit-up mansion, Alistair and Donna sat in a windowsill and watched their friends mainly argue. "So, what's going on, exactly?"

"Well, the Poet's like the Doctor." Alistair said. "She's a Time Lord. Well, Time Lady. It's not a big difference."

"But isn't he the last one or something?"

"It's like they want us to believe that first." He shrugged with a wry smile. "But she and I, we're from the future."

"But, _we're _from the future." Donna pointed at herself. "Do I look like I'm from 1926, bud?"

"Ugh!" Alistair slapped his hands over his face and laughed. "It's so complicated! Come on, let's go get another drink before dinner."

"Now that I understand." She clinked their empty glasses together and they walked down to the kitchen.

Back on the garden, the Poet's thoughts were in turmoil. With all the wibbly-wobbly stuff happening, she thought that maybe this was supposed to be their first meeting. The un-reality of their "first" meeting would be because—well, they already knew each other! It felt right and proper. They had a few hours to talk about it properly instead of diving into a crashed ship filled with Weeping Angels before being able to discuss it.

"You know something," The Poet laughed. The mood of the conversation had oscillated back to "Creepily Cheery" for the third time. "That is the _worst _kiss we've ever had."

"Hey, hey!" The Doctor said. When he got agitated in a good way, his voice tended to go up an octave.

"Oh, right. Spoilers." They arrived at the manor and stood in the doorway. "I'm sorry, by the way, about keeping it from you." She finally said. "But you know what has to happen. This is not my first meeting with you."

"Right." The Doctor shoved his hands in his pockets. "The memory erasure. I can already feel the telepathy kicking in." He smiled wistfully. "I forgot how it felt not to be alone."

"Oh, Doctor." The Poet sighed. She reached up and placed her palm on his cheek. Even in the dim light, she could see her handprint. The corners of her lips quirked up in a soft grin. "My wonderful, mad Doctor. When aren't your poor hearts being broken?"

His smile in return was just as sad. Thunder cracked loudly over their heads, and as rain began to fall, they decided to go inside for dinner.


End file.
